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lowing Authors of the Ozarks 
And Their Literature 

Copyright 1 945 

Florence Woodloek M cCullough. 
Joplin, Missouri 

An Autobiography 
Compiled by 


Florence Woodlock McCullough 
Publisher and Compiler 

Dedicated to 

Staff Sgt. Diuoyne Lee McCullough 

P.F.C. Dannie Dale McCullough 

» » 

Some cf the contri^i*tqrs ; .to.<his yp;um^ej2C£SO . 
whose names are famMaJ.:ifl;ihe/.poUry 
others, not so familiar to the public, have a sWeet poetic 
rhythm in their souls, too orecioufsi&fTje hidden and es- 
sentia! to the good of mankind, thufeiSiMing them equally 
deserving to be remembered with characteristic loyaity. 

This book is not a complete biography of thvse lovely 
characters, but the aim is to present a word picture, a 
description of their beauty in thought, verse and lives, 
as I know them, and, as far as possible,, to convey to the 
reader that depth of character which I believe develops 
from reaction to the beauty and solitude of these our 

own Ozark Hills. 

Having had the privilege of enjoying the personal 
friendship of most of these poetic dreamers of the Ozarks, 
I feel I must, to the best of my ability, place before you 
a record of the excellent merits of each, thus helping to 
perpetuate their memory and also to render a service to 
you, dear reader, that you may know these Ozarkian 
Seers of visions and dream-rs of dr~aros. 

This work meets a ne r d of the reading public bv pro- 
viding in one volume the life stories of living Ozark 
writers of wor+h and a few of their poems from which I 
believe you will derive much pleasure, since there are 
poems of many types, on a variety of subjects, to fit any 

Because of inspirational value biography has a vital 
place in education. Not only has the marvelous climatic 
and scenic value been conducive to developing the best 
creative talents among native writers, but has nroven a 
magnet which attracted many _ writers from far-away 
places who are now making their homes in our beautiful 

There may be heroes of war, heroes of the financial 
world, but we present to you heroes of peace, love, friend- 
ship, home and beauty — the dreamer’s side of kind and 
lovely neighbors — the poetic Folk of the Beautiful 
Ozark Hills. 

Florence Woodlock McCullough. 

— 3 — 

Born in Mondovi, Wis- 
consin, April 23, 1884. My 
childhood seemed to re- 
volve around books, scis- 
sors, and pastepots. Before 
I started to school I had 
learned to read, though no 
one knew how or when. 
Books were my first love. 

I started writing poetry 
when I was eight. 

My room overlooked the 
river and the hills. Beside 
me was my desk, made of 
a goods box draped with 
bleached flour sacks, in 
vhose farthest recess was 
hidden a cigar box contain- 
ing poems, stories, and 
songs, mostly unfinished. 

We had come to the Ozarks the year after my mother's 
death. My father, returning from a home-seekers’ excur- 
sion, had declared, “Well, girls, I’ve found the garden spot 
of the world,” and I have never had reason to doubt it. We 
fell in love at sight with the hills around Fayetteville, 
Arkansas. It was a magic land, of captivating moods and 
endless beauties. It is that still. 

I married Ary Adkins in 1909. Mother of three children. 

My writing is woven all through the years. It was only 
a step from public school teaching to the field of Christian 
education, Progressive Teacher, Normal Instructor, The 
Christian Standard, The Lookout, and The Standard Bible 
School Worker. Much of my published work has consisted 
cf sh'-cit stories alnd serials. My favorite of them all was 
“Bread Alone,” which ran in The Lookout in 1933. 

Among the pleasant relaxations in a strenuous life 
were my contributions to the Ozark Moon, conducted by 
W. J. Lemke in the Northwest Arkansas Times. 

Home, Fayetteville, Arkansas, Route 2. 



It was treasures like these. 
But rarer far, 

The Magi brought with them 
When they followed the Star. 


Eensy-teensy Baby, 

Pink and soft and warm, 

How Pd like to tend you. 

Keep you safe from harm. 

Nose is just a button 

In your wrinkled face . . . 

Say, what’s that funny light 
That’s shining , ’round the place? 


I wonder if, when her pains came hard. 

There in Bethlehem’s cold inn-yard, 

She could look down the years and be reconciled, 
Knowing we’d love her Manger-Child. 


Your problem, which no mere man understands, 
Demands consummate art — 

The endless Martha tasks upon your hands, 
When you’ve a Mary heart. 

— Grace Reese Adkins. 


Greetings from down on 
the equator to all Hillbillies : 

At Flo's request, I will 
attempt to write a short 
biography of myself. 

I was born in Weaubleau, 
July 5, 1918, so I guess that 
means I have reached that 
quarter of a century mark. 
I lived in Weaubleau most 
of my life, and went to 
school in Springfield. 

A f.w years ago I ac- 
cepted a position in the 
War Department in Wash- 
ington and lived there until 
-transferred into foreign 
service in January, 1942. 

[I have always liked to write 
and though I have never 

gained any fame or distinction, I have had various con- 
tributions published. During the last year and a half, 
since I have lived abroad, my duties have been too nu- 

merous to permit me to do any writing; however, I wrote 
two articles which were published in Spanish newspapers. 
When the war is over I hope to be able to get a little 

r:st and do some writing. Like everyone else, at the pres- 
ent I am exerting my every effort toward winning the war. 

A few months ago I joined & foreign theatre guild, and 
I played the leading role in the old melodrama, Ten Nights 
In A Barroom,” which proved a success. It ran to a full 
house in Colon for six consecutive nights. 

We are attempting to organize a society made up of 
all the Missourians in this part of the world. We have 
located a good many, and we are having a dinner party 
and entertainment about once each month. 

I am looking forward to being in the Ozarks again 
someday and in the meantime, I will continue to dream 
about them. 


I stood in the door of an empty morgue 
And in awe I gazed about. 

It had a damp and musty sm U1 ; 

Dt.ach influenced the place, no doubt. 

The place was dimly lighted, 

As moonlight shone faintly through 
Immense colored windows. 

Stained with early morning dew. 

In the farthest, darkest corner, 

I could barely see 
A bier cf heavy marble ; 

Was it waiti ng there for me? 

At first I thought I'd run away, 

Only gloom I would derive 
From a visit to this ghastly place, 

When I saw one thing, — alive. 

Though covered with a cloak of dust, 

The console seemed to invite 
Someone to press her many keys, 

So a song would fill the night, 
it seemed the dead were watching 
As I carefully took the seat, 

Raised the lid, and turned it on, 

But I’d forgotten my feet, 
f must have hit a low bass note; 

I’ve never heard a tone so weird, 

As it gave forth a sound so loud, 

It would wake the dead, I feared. 

I auiekly set stops, 

Pushed down hard on the swell; 

1 knew when I got startpd 
I’d forget of death and hell. 

If you, by chance, had stepped in then. 
Words like these you’d never choose, 

To tell the story of the morgue; 

For I was playing “St. Louis Blues.” 

— Wendel Allen 

- 7 - 


I am the seventh child, and the eldest girl in a family' 
of nine children and was born in Will County, Illinois, 
I am glad I have been a country child. My earliest mem- 
ories have to do with a deep ravine south of the house, 
purple and pale blue with violets, with lying on the grass 
and making pictures in the voluminous clouds in the sky, 
fascinating as were the lacy tracings of the frost on 
the window panes in winter, A little later I fondly re- 
call the apple tree with the comfortable crotch where I 
sat and read books by the hour. 

At the age of fourteen my mind was so full of “a 
number of things” I bought a book — ledger type; — in 
which to set down my secret thoughts, sometimes in 
rhyme, sometimes in prose, and the thoughts of youth 
were indeed “long, long thoughts” that had no past but 
reached eagerly toward an enchanting future. About two 
years later I wrote an article on “Summer Cooking” 
and sent it to the Orange Judd Farmer. To my utter 
astonishment and delight a portion of it was printed 
for which I received seventy-five cents. 

Having finished the usual preliminary schooling and 
having secured a second grade teachers certificate I 
taught country schools for a time. 

I went to Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa, 
where I took a special course for professional church 
work. After graduation I had charge of a struggling 
newly organized church and went from there to Columbia, 
Missouri, where for three and a half years I held the posi- 
tion of assistant to the pastor of the First Chris- 
tian Church. I am very happy in this work which gave me 
contacts, not only with the town people but with young 
folks from all over the State who were there attending 
the State University. 

Elmer Jackson Allen and I were married September 
2 , 1909 . 

Through all this period I had written more or less just 
in answer to' an inner urge. Then came motherhood and 
am interesting experience of sharing a child’s growing 
mind. When Paul came to me again and again saying: 

“I have a bright idea I want to share with you’' I feel 
he did more for me than I ever did for him and that 
I believe v/ould be the conclusion of most parents who have 
found joy in their worK. 


I do not need a costly shrine 
When I pray, — 

Just quiet like a twilight hour 
At close of day; 

Just beauty like a sunrise 
Or a stately, bending tree; 

Then if my heart is lonely for Him 
God comes near to me. 


Beautiful things! 

Purple velvet of pansies 
And butterfly wings, 

Golden gift of noonday 
Twilight and shadowy light, 

Singing of birds in the tree-tops 
And silvery, star-lit night; 

Winds of the Spring-time sweeping 
Sorrows of Winter away, 

Patter of raindrops coaxing 
Blooms for another day, 

Wonderful new life springing 
Over the waiting sod, 

Thankful, I close my ey^s and whisper 
The beautiful name of God! 


We walked in loveliness together, You and I; 

So now whene’er I see a fragrant flower 
Or glimpse a starbright sky, 

I know a comradeship that laughs 
At time and distance and will not die. 

— Ellen Spalding Allen. 

— 9 — 


Born July 7, 1905, in the 
Ozark Mountains of Pnelps 
County, the son of George 
Thomas and Hattie LeTour- 
nure Arthur. He received 
his education in the Schools 
of Phelps County, under 
private teachers during his 
extensive travels and by 
having had access to the 
best private libraries in 
New York City where he 
lived for a time after his 
discharge from the U. S. 

Navy. Has two published 
books, “Bushwhacker” and 
“Backwoodsmen,” authentic historic stories of early life 
in the Ozarks. Member Ozarkian-Hillerofters and other 
groups. He is charter member GWG. On January 15th, 
he re-enlisted for service in the U. S. Navy for the dura- 
tion of the war. He has a revised edition of “Bush- 
whacker” ready for the press and a book-length novel 
more than one-fourth completed at this time. Of fine pio- 
neer stock, his maternal ancestors are of the royal family 
of France. He will be much missed in Guild work, having 
been one of the most active members in the GWG, since 
its beginning in 1941. 

Quoting from his book, “Backwoodsmen”: “Wild life 
in the Ozark backwoods is understood and enjoyed. Stub 
and his wife have lived the beauty and enjoyed eery 
echoes of the Hills, which leaves an everlasting impres- 
sion on backwoods people, who are not at all at home 
without tlmm, and at night a short period of silence in 
the woods is full of mystic meaning.” 

By Special permission of the Christopher Pub. House, 
Boston, Mass., and Gasconade Writers Guild Bulletin. 

- 10 — 


Among the Qzarks wooded hills 
"Where nature’s art stands out superb, 
Made by God with various skills, 
That v»e may enjoy, but not disturb. 

The Heavens are so low and clear, 
That atop a peak on yonder hill 
I love to spend my time so dear 
And breathe this life, a unique thrill. 

The stars I can see above 

But yet they seem so near, so low. 

So close seems Heaven . . . that place of love, 
Erom that peak but a step to go. 

— George Clinton Arthur. 

— 11 — 


She was born in Stuttgart, 
Wuerte mberg, Germany. She 
came to America August 10, 
1893, where she has done much 
to make the world a better, 
brighter place and no more loyal 
heart beats under the Red, White 
and Blue. She is known' as the 
“Sehuman-Heink of Missouri,” 
possessing the same rich deep 
qualities of that beloved voice. 
She is a charter mem ber of the Gasconade Writers’ Guild 
she was married to Harry S. Alverson, February 8, 
1896, and is the mother of two sons. Mrs. Alverson has 
always been a leader in philanthropic work, and her spac- 
ious home was the scene of much social activity, prior to 
the death of her husband on October 8, 1941. 

Librarian Rolla Public Library and resides in Rolla. 
Christmas comes but once a year 
Bringing tidings of good cheer. 

And when I feel lone and sad 
Thoughts of dear friends make me glad, 
Friends who always think of me, 

Be kind to them, Father, I ask of thee. 
Each year I used to trim a tree, 

Oh, what joy it was to me 

To see the children, hear them sing 

“What, 0 what did Santa bring?” 

Then on bended knees, to Heaven went 
This prayer: “Make every heart content”; 

But now they are men and may Jesus take 
The same care of them for His dear sake. 

— Marie Alverson 

— 12 — 

“Suffers from iiterary eczema; itches 
to write and scratches for a living.” 

Born in Minnesota, spent early days 
in Danota Territory, in Minnesota regi- 
ment, 12th Vol. Infy., Spanish War, corres- 
pondent for St. Paul (Minn.) Daily Globe 
during war. Been in the writing game and 
printing fifty years, always combining the 
two. Specializes on paragraphing and short feature and 
character articles. 

Publisher of Hill-Billy News, Gayler Mountain, Win- 
slow, Arkansas. 

Now Publishing “What Is a Hill-Billy?” “Battle of 
Pea Ridge,” “A Letter From a Hill-Billy,” and “Hill-Billy 
Ballads and Verse,” 

Copied from Barnes’ own Hill-Billy News: 

“The only thing surprising about this paper-ette, is: 
That anyone would have the nerve to print it. Thar! 
We’ve dun sed that, now we'll drop down to smaller type. 
When we wore about seven year old our mpth c r took us to 
have our picture tooken. The photo man come over to the 
chair we sot in and turned our head a little, saying to Ma : 

“His ears be a trifle prominent, it’ll make a nicer pic- 
ture thisaway.” 

Well, folks, I had cut-outs put in them prominent ears. 
They have heered a lot in the years that followed, but they 
didn't register anything unfavorable said about our 

One time a little pig-tail r d girl remarked: “My Pa says 
you’ve got the awfullest big eyes.” 

We didn’t tell the little gal of =nme things those eyes 
had seen her Pa do — he was the biggest Pa in the world 
to her. 

Was talking with a man — a hill bflly — “Yep.” said he: 
“I’m too feeble to be trusted to think for myself ; too sim- 
ple to take care of myself; too grouchy to be decent com- 
pany; when I say something about wanting to do some- 
thing, I’m silly; my talking gets on their nerves; I’m an 
old fossil; I never got anywhere — what gits me is, I am 
their dad — how come they're so durned smart.” 

— 13 — 


I was born on a farm near Crane, Illinois, where 
I lived with my parents until I reached my major- 
ity There were two girls and five boys. My eld 
Serial I are the lone survivors. Mr school™ was 
very meager — not finishing grammar school. Later I 
had three years at the State Normal, Carbondale, Illinois, 
—taught two terms of school, then came to St. Louis, Mis- 
souri, took 'civil service examination and entered the 
mail service in 1904. In 1916 transferred to Poplar- 
Bluff Missouri, 'and returned to St. Louis m 1919, and re- 
tired’ in March, 1941. In 1923 I passed the Missouri Bar 
but never practiced. Have a married son and married 
daughter and a grandson. In 1937 I wrote a poem on the 
new postoffice and since have written many mor:. 


When it’s apple blossom season in the Ozarks, 

That is when I take my car and start to roam. 

The aroma and the fragrance is so witching 
That it breaks the ties of fellowship and home. 

There the bees are on the wing for treasured honey. 

And the birds are nesting in the leafy trees: 

There the wind is wafting odors of the lilac, 

But the apple blossoms dominate the breeze. 

There is beauty in this wilderness of blossoms 
With its inlaid shades of pink and creamy white 
Mellowed by the soft green leaves of Heaven's background, 
Is translated into musical delight. 

There the wanderlust takes charge, and is compelling 
As we wander through the miles of mystic maze 
In a trance so effervescent — aromatic, 

That the minutes and long hours are lost in days. 

There the orchards and the mountains are so blended, 
That the harmony and fragrance is sublime; 

And the soul is wafted to immortal glory, 

With a foretaste of the beauty that's divine. 

Published by Rolla Herald, Rolla Mo., March 28, 1940. 

— 14 — 


Highest Point between Appalachian 
and Rocky Mountains. 

Mount Magazine, at last I've seen 
Thy grandeur so sublime. 

Thy mighty form has weathered storm. 

And stood the test of time. 

The thunderbolt wdth mighty jolt 
And undulating roll, 

Has sought to tear away thy pride 
And render void thy soul. 

Thy dome has pierced the cloud and sky 
Since the advent of time; 

And countless ages will roll by. 

Nor change thy form sublime. 

And countless souls from every clime 
Will worship at thy shrine; 

For this majestic pile was wrought 
By none but the Divine. 

But in thy splendor and thy pride 
Thou standest not alone. 

For many ranges peaks and domes 
Surround thy matchless throne. 

And when we join the myriad throng 
Who have gone on before. 

Thy shrine will still a Mecca be 
For countless millions more. 

— Geo. A. Barker. 

15 — 


F. A. Behymer, who 
writes feature stories for 
tne St. Louis Post-JJispatcn 
many of tnem gieantd from 
the Missouri scene, was born 
on a farm, a tact tnat mignt 
be inferred from tne under- 
standing and sympathy tnat 
mark his stories about tne 
plain folk of the OzarKs. 

He had little formal educa- 
tion. He quit school at tne 
age of IS, when, according 
to rural school grading, ne 
was “in the Fourth Reader,” 

(McGuffey’s of course) . So 
he got ms education the 
hard way — the self way. 

The boy’s schooling, however, was supplemented by such 
learning as may have been derived from his three-fold vo- 
cational eourse in selling newspapers, carrying a milk route 
and herding the village cows. It might be said that major- 
ing as a newsboy was how he got his start in journalism, 
for it is only a step (about a thousand miles) from one to 
the other. 

It was as a printer's “devil” that the boy first got ink 
on his fingers and was bitten by the writing bug. The re- 
sulting addiction became virulent and found an outlet as 
a volunteer reporter while employed as a copy-holder and 
proof-reader on the Post-Dispatch. 

_ That was his first newspaper job and his last, for the 
misguided editors who encouraged his 1 fledgling efforts as 
a reporter later found themselves unable to get rid of him 
by any device short of physical violence, to which they 
did not feel inclined to resort. Editors are so soft-hearted. 
It began in 1888 and has continued to this year of grac 3 
1944, which adds up to 56 years and a fraction, if the 
arithmetical rule is to be trusted. By the same rule he is 
now, when this book is published, 74 years old and still 



going strong — or still going anyway. Which shows, he 
says, that the first 56 years are the worst. 

Beside his newspaper writings, Mr. Behymer is the au- 
thor of one book which the publishers, in the exercise 
of a proper prerogative and a fine sense of discretion, have 
declined to print, and several others that have not bee" 
written and probably wont be because the time is getting 
short. Maybe it is just as well, he says. 

“Bee’s” dearest recollection is the recognition that was 
accorded him by his employer and associates on the fiftieth 
anniversary of his connection with the Post-Dispatch. 
Cherished also are the fine words of appraisal and appre- 
ciation that were written by the comniler of this book after 
a visit, to her home, “Idle-a- While,” near Joplin — 

“Mr. Behymer has a personality that make a good im- 
pression, quiet, reserved, with a iolly twinkle in his eyes 
— the eyes that don't miss anything, that have seen so 


much in this world that they have grow* kind, which is 
proved by the kindly heart of him toward our Ozarks and 
their hill folks in his feature writing, . . 

“His writings are an encouragement and inspiration to 
folks everywhere, so honest, clean, and straghtforward, 
which proclaims a great writer with a great kindly heart 
at the helm. With his scope of human knowldege, born 
of his ability to get the story first, he has climbed to a 
pinnacle few are privileged to reach.” 

It would be ungracious, says Mr. Behymer, to disclaim 
a tribute so finely spoken and so obviously sincere, but as 
an old newspaper man himself he is moved to say that the 
story might be slightly exaggerated. 

On the family side Behymer has one wife (who has had 
to put up with a good deal for more than 50 years) ; one 
son, Ray W., publisher of the Webster Groves News- 
Times, Webster Groves, Mo., and no slouch of a writer 
himself ; one daughter, Ruth, wife of J. P. Ulbright, in the 
Government service at Washington for the duration; and 

4 grandrhildren, one, Larry, Lieutenant (j.g.) in Naval Air 
Corps, and another, Ruthellen, in the Naval Civilian Ser- 
vice at Washington. 

It‘s a good world, says Behymer, takng a backward 
look, mostly because there are so many good people in it. 

■ 18 - 


I, Henrietta Fournier Bettenga, was born in 1870, oil 
an Iowa farm near the county line between Tama and Ben- 
ton. In do not remember in which county. I hope there 
will be no wrangling over it. Tama claiming it was Ben- 
ton, Benton that it was Tama. (Paraphrasing Geo. Ade.) 

My father was French, my mother English. I had the 
great advantage of being the tenth child in a family of 
eleven. My older brothers and sister were able, interested 
iu literature, history, and in every good cause. My mind 
was both receptive and retentive. 

For many years I have spoken and written in behalf 
cf any viial truth in which I believed, — always in prose 
yet with a touch of the poetic. 

I once read about a “dream” by an English writer of 
long ago. According to the “dream,” when England awoke 
one day the Bible had been lost. Not only the book itself, 
but all trace of its influence, all echo of its music had dis- 
appeared. People no longer understood their great writers 
for their own best literature was based upon the Bible 
and its teachings. There were beautiful structures whose 
purpose nobody knew. No one went hither to pray, and 
no happy young sang the glad hallelujahs. “Inasmuch as 
ye did it unto me” was no longer heard encouraging men 
to acts of brotherhood, and no one prayed “Our Father.” 
The golden rule was unknown, and benevolent institutions 
no longer existed. “This “dream” may come true, unless 
those to whom the “Word” is a light for their own path- 
way do more to bring others within the radius of the light. 

Edgar Allen Poe long ago wrote a poem, about the 
Creation. After describing the deep primeval darkness, 
he closed with these joyous lines: “And then God smiled 
and it was morning, matchless and supreme.” Darkness — 
moral darkness, pervades a great part of the world today, 
but in the light of faith we may look forward to a new 
dawn, when God's smile will bring the morning, “match- 
less and supreme.” 

— Henrietta Fournier Bettenga. 


Born July 5, 1885, at Marble Rock, Iowa; the daughter 
Iowa. Her father taught the first school in that vicin- 
of John and Rebecca Scnermerhorn, pioneers of Northwest 
ity in one room of their home. He was also prominent in 
politics and education in that sect!. n. Of Dutch and Swiss 
descent, Mrs. Blake is of a rugg. d courageous disposition 
which she inherited from bc'h ner mother and father. The 
outstanding traits of her mother were her devotion to her 
family, her religion and her patriotism. 

She was married to H. M. Blake of Webster City, Iowa, 
October 12, 1914. Mrs. Blake is the mother of three chil- 
dren, two sons and a daughter. She is a charter member 
of the Gasconade Writers’ Guild, and has been writing for 
a number of years. 


(Dedicated to all of Our Boys) 

Just a bit of Dutch and Irish 
And a strain of English, too 

Offspring of foreign countries 

But they are Americans through and through. 

They have shouldered arms and answered taDS 
And marched with the Red, White and Blue ; 

We boast of the finest in the land 
Brave boys that are always true. 

Mothers, wives, sisters and sweethearts 
Oh, do not forget them, I say. 

They keep the home fires burning 
And work and help and pray. 

Let us rear our children gently, 

Teach them how to work and grow 

Into good and useful soldiers 

For they shall harvest what they sow. 

— 20 — 


In a war torn world so dreary 
Far away from home 

Our soldier boys., bright eyed tho weary — 
Some face downward, still and prone. 

God above in all His glory 
Gave us hope one Xmas morn — 

Gave us strength to bear our burdens 
When His son, our Christ, was born. 

When beset with grief and heartaches 

Let us not forget to pray 

“Give us strength, Oh, Gentle Jesus” 

And we will face a brighter day. 

We must battle ever onward — 

Just keep faith. We’ll make the grade. 

Keep the vision of His promise 
And our darkest hours will fade. 

Once again we will hear the music 
In the ringing of the bells, 

And rejoice in the Xmas carols 
With the story that it tells. 

Then when this strife is over 
We will breathe a deep “Amen”, 

And we’ll hear the angels singing 
Peace on Earth. Good will toward men. 

— Rebecca B. Blake. 

- 21 — - 


I am not what would be 
called a writer. Being a 
musician. I love rhythm 
and beauty in music. Na- 
turally these convey them- 
selves to verse. Have never 
had “Roses” and “To a 
Spring Rondo” published 
but would not fear nor be 
ashamed to show them to 
any good musician. 

I was born in Cutten- 
berg, Iowa; at the age of 
ten moved to Dubuque and 
from there to Joplin where 
I have since lived. Studied 
music in Dubuque, Joplin, 
and New York City. 


The fresh, sweet joys of spring are 
Bleak winter could not ever reign. 

The robin’s song is heard and then we know, 

Or else his cheerful dulcet notes are vain. 

I sing, and bring thee news from hill and glen, 

Of winsome violets and grassy dale, 

Now come bluebells and ferns, a pretty twain, 

The fruit trees are in blossom. 

The fresh, sweet joys of spring are here again, 

Bleak winter could not ever reign. 

Lavishly upon the air they spend sweet fragrance rare, 
With charming beauty Love’s own message send. 

Bleak winter shall indeed not ever reign. 

The fresh, dear joys of Spring can never end. 

— Martha J. Bliedung. 
— 22 — 


Mrs. Rathe Blecher was born in Westfalen. She came 
to Canada in 1926, then to Cleveland, Ohio, and married, 
and then located in St. Louis. She began composing 
rhymes several years ago for her own pleasure and the 
amusement of her two children, nine and eleven years old. 
She loves the out-door life. Her hope is to own an Ozark 
mountain farm some day with trees, wild flowers and a 
gurgling brook. 


Come out, dear sun, and shine for me 
Light up the patch of gray I see. 

Tis but a wall and full of soot, 

But when you kiss it, sunbeams shoot. 

Let golden sunbeams dance and play 
They take the thought of pain away. 

Now little winds are jumping in 
With cooling fingers stroke my chin 
Best things in life are always free 
Sunshine, fresh air, a shady tree. 

A babbling brook with fish at play 
The wild birds’ song so light and gay 
An Ozark hill so full of peace 
Dear Lord, let me always have these. 

— Rathe Blecher. 

- 23 — 

Born at Rock Springs, 
Virginia, one of twin girls. 
I recall my childhood at 
Oceola. My father was 
pastor of the Presbyterian 
Church. There were seven 
of us children. There was 
a strip of woods near our 
home, and ther.e we used 
to go to hunt the first vio- 
lets. There in the deep 
mold we found great 
patches of winter green 
and later the striped pip- 
sisaewa with its bright red 
berries. We found the 
lovely Indian pipes close to 
the root of some tree. 
Their great limbs made a 
perfect seat for the first 
one to reach it and all the rest tried to pull him out. 

It was on the West Fork of the Holston river 'that the 
Old Glen's Mill was located, built before the Revolutionary 
War. Its walls were of stone and very thick, great oak 
beams blackened with age protruded from the eaves. Moss 
and ivy clung to it in solid masses. There we spent many 
happy hours playing about the mill when we were allowed 
to go with our father after flour and feed. 

The great stones turned slowly but ceaselessly, the water 
wheel throwing glittering spray for many f^et in the air, 
only to fall hack in a shower of rainbow colored drops. 

On the sixth of November, we closed the house and 
rode seven miles to Abingdon, where we w^r° to take the 
train. The first afternoon and night were fu'l of interest- 
ing sights for us as we had never been farther than the 
next county from home. 

When I was fifteen my mother died very suddenly, 
and I became housekeeper for our poor bewildered father, 
and the three younger children. 

I’ll never forget how lovely the hills of home looked 

— 24 —- 

to me, how the wild roses cascaded down the roadside 
ditches and 1 never wanted to leave them again. 

I came to Cane Hill, Arkansas, in 1894, and grew up 
there. I went to Woodlawn College at O’FaLon, Missouri, 
one year. On August 4, 1904, I was married to B. Brew- 
ster, and lived for thirty years on the old Brewster place 
north of Cant Hill. I now live in Fort Smith where there 
are many things to see and do and write poems about. 


When April comes stealing 
Across the tender grass, 

She 1 aves a breath of perfume 
On all the winds that pass. 

As she slips among the shadows 
Beside the garden wall, 

I know that she is coming. 

Though I see her not at all. 

When April comes stealing 
Piown our quiet street, 

She does not make a sound. 

With her green slippered feet, 

But I know that she is near me 
For there is something in the air, 

That tells me April's coming 
with lilacs in her hair. 

— Netta McCluer Brewster. 

- 25 - 

Chas. B. Driscoll, Gillett Burgess, J. Harvey Burgess, Geo. Williams and Frank Cline. 


Bom at Salem, Arkansas, where Heaven and the Oz- 
arks look each other in the eye with mutual admiration. 
Won a poetical contest at the age of eleven — was re- 
warded with a book of poems, and a two-weeks’ vacation and 
$5.00 — and never received another nickle for a poem till 
eight years later. As Arkansas had no State Song, wrote 
“In The Land of Apple Blossoms, Arkansas.” Consulted 
Mr. Wright, music critic of the Arkansas Gazette, and he 
suggested that I contact the president of the Women’s 
Clubs of the State, asking her cooperation in getting it 
adopted as Arkansas’ State song. She liked the idea of 
a State song and in her column in the same Little Rock 
Gazette suggested that a contest be held to select a 
State Song — but limited the constants to the member- 
ship of the Federated Women’s Clubs of Arkansas — and 
I was sort of disoualified. Published r ao'' r s in Arkansas, 
Missouri and Delaware. Swiping a line from Tennyson, 
I am a part of all that I have w^ote a booklet of 

poems, “The Folks That T Fa^~ TOr^d”. Pmudest of 
two literary honors — invited by the Mark Twain Associa- 
tion of New York City to deliver the address at the Hotel 
Astor on the 106th anniversary of Twain’s birth— did so 
—alter a fashion— and was unanimous choice of graduat- 

— 26 — 

ing class to deliver commencement address in town where 
I had lived for many years and i.adn’t made a nickle. Was 
paid for same — although I didn't ask it. Treasure two 
letters from No. 10 Downing Street, from Winston 
Churchill's secretaries in which the Prime Minister thanks 
me for writing the poem, “The Last Battle.” Spend much 
time on lecture platform, with many appearances as after- 
dinner speaker and on radio programs. Haven’t much abil- 
ity, but “get by” because I am so homely. 


October in the Ozarks, why 
It sort of sets me dreamin’ 

Of frosty mornin’s long ago 
And all the hills a-teemin’ 

With gnomes and happy fairy-folk, 

And maples all a-flamin’, 

Of grldenrod and purple grape, 

All words of art a-shamin’; 

For God himself made mother earth, 

And made the woods to robe her — 

.And God's own masteroice they be — 

The Ozarks in October! 

October in the Ozarks, with 
The cystal waters flowin’ 

The painted leaves a-driftin’ down 
And spicy breezes blowin’ 

The pdis’nin frost, the hunter’s horn, 

The harvest nrnon a-wanin’, 

And all the world wakes up to smile 
At little brooks complainin’. 

Yes, T there be a plac* on earth 
That’s almost nigh as pritty 
As all the streets and ga+es of gold 
Up in the pearly city, 

It’s with the rus’lin’ autumn wind 
And pine trees tall and sober, 

And tiream haze on a thousand hills — 

The Ozarks in October ! 

— J. Harvey Burgess. 

— 27 - 


Born in Ohio, of Quaker stock, whose Great, Great 
Grandfather was one of the frontier settlers at Waynes- 
ville, Ohio. Another Great, Great Grandfather served m 
the Revolutionary War. Another Great, Great Grandfather 
enlisted three times in the Continental Army and was 
three times honorably discharged. _ The family lost two 
boys in the war to preserve the union. He tells me of one 
incident when the party with which they floated down the 
Ohio River was fired upon by Indians on shore, and in the 
excitement a boat capsised. They later found a little baby 
girl sleeping peacefully on a feather tick floating in the 

1 JL V Cl . . 

Mr. Burnett has three college degrees. He taught m 
the schools of Cincinnati, also in the University of Ohio 
and in the Oklahoma A. and M. 

When Mr. Burnett’s children were grown he returned 
to his farm near Seymour, Missouri, where he now resides, 
where he can become more of a Hill-Billy, so he says. 

— 28 — 


Beneath the warm October sky 
When plain and vailey purpie lie 
Transformed in golden haze 
I love to tread with lingering feet 
The path that to my youth was sweet 
And dream of other days. 

I pause to watch the breezes blow 
The leaves, frost-colored, to and fro 
And hear the acorns fall; 

The dear old hills time cannot change 
Nor make the brooklet’s music strange 
Nor still the quail’s low call. 

Across the long-reaped fields I walk 
Where husks hang empty from each stalk 
And meadow-lands are bare; 

Now dim has, grown the golden-rod 
And floating down from milk-weed pod 
And thistle Alls the air. 

The .twilight shadows thin and gray 
Steal softly at the close of day 
From each familiar tree; 

Like shadows, too, the past draws near 
And voices echo in my ear 
With shadow melody. 

For I have reached the time of life 
When calm succeeds the fret and strife 
And harvest work is o’er; 

No more I sow for future years 
But backward look through mists of tears 
To Summer days of yore. 

-—-Whittier Burnett. 

— 29 — 


Born in St. Louis, Missouri, September 20, 1874, the 
voungest son of James L. and Theresa Evans Buskett. At 
the age of seven his father moved to Rolla for the express 
purpose of educating his family at the Missouri School of 
Mines and Me.allurgy. Evans graduated from that insti- 
tution June 13, 1895, receiving a degree of Bachelor of 
Science in Chemistry and Metallurgy. 

Always interested in good literature he first became 
interested in writing upon a visit to his home in Joplin of 
his sister, Nancy H. Buskett, who was having some success 
at that time as a writer of short stories. He was not 
successful as a story writer, but later wrote a number of 
articles on Mining and Metallurgy for the Mining World. 
Engineering and Mining Journal, Mines and later wrote 
for trade magazines. 

He taught chemistry for several years at the Joplin 
High School, and while in that position was appointed 
chairman of a committee to publish a high school news- 
paper, The Spyglass. While in Joplin High School he pub- 
listed two series of still pictures, The Foundation of 
Chemstry, and the Metals. 

He spent ma^y years in the field of mining and met- 
allurgy and is still employed in his profession as a research 

Mr. Buskett’s sunny disposition has cast him as a 
leader, and won for him many friends. His home is 2501 
Penn. Avenue, Joplin, Missouri. 


I saw a flag, the stars and stripes, 
It was flying in the breeze, 

Nor borne aloft in battle's strife, 
But on its staff it hung at ease 
Jn auiet gorgeous folds 
The flag of peace. 

- SO — 

Our flag of peace is now in war. 
And may the struggle never cease. 
Nor rest until the toe shall yield, 
■i'or liberty we must release. 

All nations shall be free to make 
A world of peace. 

Defeat may come, our flag go down. 
Yet never shall its cause decease, 

But rise again to victory. 

When freedom’s foes on earth surcease. 
We pray, when sacrifice shall end, 

“God give us peace.” 


Oh, what is so rare as a night in June 
With its balmy air and silvery moon. 

When gay young couples dance and spoon 
To the syncopation of a jazzy tune? 

Whether we listen, or whether we look, 

We feel the call of the shady nook 
On the bank of a softly purling brook, 

And dream of the fish w:’d like to hook. 

And so the days and nights are spent 
With wild abandon or sweet content. 

Each follows in June his particular bent, 

The bickering stream or the sax’s lament. 

v — Evans W. Buskett. 


1 £Tt5W up UI1 Cl g&JLJLUJpmg 

collect miniature replicas of 
write something worthwhile 


Born in that wonder 
state, wide, wide Texas, 
it matters not when, it 
matters not where ... I 
am irrevocably a Long- 

Having breathed the 
fragrance of wild plum 
along her draws and 
branches, having slept 
upon the sand dunes of 
Red River valley, gath- 
ered wild plums along 
the banks, I am forever 
locoed. . . . having been 
away so long that she 
would not remember nor 
claim me. I am only a 

iustang. I love horses and 
em. My ambition? ... to 
1 this world . . . and ride 

pegasus in the next. 


There is something about a wobbly little colt, 
Lifting' his frightened faun-eyed head to bolt, 

That catches at the muscles of my throat — 
Maybe the down in tail, the kink in his coat. 

But the comical bounce of the soring in his heel 
Is laughing relief to the choke that I feel. 

— 32 —— 


I watched with leaden heart 
The last bright leaf depart 
The bough so wildly spread 
At window by my bed. 

But when the night had come 
My eyes, turned skyward from 
My cot, found starlet gems 
Had bloomed, upon the limbs! 


These are the gentle men, yes! these are they. 

One rashly called by Jap and Nazi “soft,” 

Slashing with gritted teeth up Appian Way, 

Facing ; the withering fire from mountain loft! 
Harassed, beleaguered, blasted; gasping for air 
In Hell! (sweet in their hearts a dream of home) 
Cursing up trails of blood .... each curse a prayer; 
Once gentle eyes now fiercely fixed at Rome! 

Even as Christ, they go with saddened heart, 
Knowing they too, have. been somehow betrayed. 
Raining their winged death with fiendish art. 

Angrily rending the clouds in deadly raid! 

Bearing the Torch that free men sing about, 
lo light the Flame that Darkness smothered out. 

— Eva Mackay Butcher. 



Hallie Southgate Burnett was born in St. Louis and 
came io Jtco^a,, as a cniid. ihe daughter of Mrs. 
Li^aattu na^er Soutngate and the late John McKnight 
bouuifeate, sne is tue granddaughter of the late Judge 
a.iu i«ii s. W. W. Southgate of RoLa. She received her 
eauy education in Eoila. 

Mrs. journett has travelled extensively with her 
husband wno is on leave of absence from Columbia U., 
New hone City. Her first pubLcat.on received notice in 
a dunor League National contest sponsored by Story Mag- 
azine. She was selected as a 1940 0. Henry prize winner 
with her story, “Eighteenth Summer,” by the 0. Henry 
Note! prize winner, ,and others. A portion of her “Fool 
and Fortunes” from Junior League Magazine was reprint- 
ed in ‘•'Woman”. Her latest sto. y “Pattern m Shade” 
will appear shortly in American magazine. Member Junior 
League cf New York City, she is a life-time honorary 
member of Gasconade Writers’ Guild. 

— 34 — 


Was born in St. Louis (1910) and has always lived 
there until the war. She hopes to return to the hills of 
Missouri. Loves the Ozarks and would rather write about 
them than any place else in the world. They are the set- 
ting for the poems here included, and that’s my chief rea- 
son for having sent this poem to Mrs. McCullough. 


There was a kind of cedar mold 
That came to spoil the apples’ gold, 

And would have left a tarnished streak 
A fruitful orchard, bending down 

Beneath a more abundant crown. 

Have filled the wasteland, by degrees, 
Where we cut out the cedar trees; — 

But wide as a stony, windswept field 

Is the space in our hearts that has not healed. 
Like strings of paper butterflies; 

The beauty of the cedar wood. 

When they were gone, we understood 

On every glowing satin cheek. 

Or, cool against a parching sun. 

Curtains of darkest shadows spun. 

Light llossoms, hung in April skies, 

And all the comfort we’ll let go, 

Of warm green feathers in the snow. 

So, prudently, we cleared the place 
Of trees that bloomed with dusky lace. 

— Constance Walther Crossen. 

— 35 — 

Was born on December 
26, 1890, in Athens Coun- 
ty, Ohio, on a farm near 
Nelsonville, a mining town 
in the Appalachian Moun- 
tains. He was the fourth 
of six sons. 

Mr. Cagg attended, and 
later taught for three 
years in a district school in 
his native county (Athens) . 
During the summers of 
those years he either work- 
ed on the farm or worked 
in the coal mines at Athens 
Ohio. After graduating 
taught in different high 
schools of Athens County, until the World War in 1917. 
After serving a year in the war overseas with the 135th 
Field Artillery, 37th Division, and before returning to the 
United States attended Serbonne University of Paris, 
France. He attended Ohio State University, Columbus, 
Ohio. Taught English Composition and Literature four 
years at Ohio Wesleyan University, Delaware, Ohio, began 
in September, 1927, as a teacher of English in the Missouri 
School of Mines, Rolla, Missouri, where he has taught 
steadily since. 

Mr. Cagg attended the University of Wisconsin and 
Columbia University, New York. He holds B. S. and A. B. 
Degrees from Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, M. A. Degree 
from Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio ; also, a Teach- 
er s T J J ^ e -®£h School Certificate in Ohio and Missouri. 

„ Hi e has written poems, several research articles in the 
held of Enghsh and American literature, a History of 

n'o Jo oi %° SSe ^ £? st ® f American Legion, Athens, Ohio, 
0920-21), and The Pocket Manual of English Diagrams, 
Christopher Publishing House, Boston, Mass., 1940. He 
+L a H ® F ran ? Gd and copyrighted the music to 

4 f , the Ml j S< ^' r , 1 Sch ° o1 of Mines and Metallurgy 
entitled, “Silver and Gold,” 1935. 


He married Miss Clyde John of Rolla, Missouri, and 
has two daugnters, Olive Anne and Ruth Elizabeth. He 
lives in Rolla, Missouri. 


Like a heap of fuel when full on fire, 

That shows at first but small — or slow — decline, 

But will once more mount up, soon to expire. 

And all its embers fall in ashes fine ; 

So dims life’s fires from Youth's bright break of day 
On through its warm and ling’ring sunny noon, 

To sun-set, an I the dark that comes alway, — ; 

And may, or may not, bring the stars or moon, 

But if Life ’s sun shines then with dimmer ‘ray 
It still, as does the hearth-fire, warms and cheers 
One’s kinsman and the friends that come his way — 
Through winter months when he the cold wind fears; 
And though he feels it shake Old Age’s house of clay, 
His winter fire will cheer him as the soft spring sun. 
His friends sit ’round his fire and talk of good he’s done. 

— Miles H. Cagg. 

Cora Binkley CaftT. was 
born and reared in Carroll 
County, Arkansas, nine 
miles East of Eureka 
Springs, Ark. She comes 
from one of the first white 
families of the Ozarks as 
her mother's people drove 
the first overland, wagon 
into the Ozarks prior to 
1925. Like many other 
pioneers they had Indian 
blood in their veins and 
lived among the Indians 
until Northwest Arkansas 
was opened up to setttle- 
ment in 1928. Mrs. Call's 
grandfather Pinkley was a 
pioneer doctor in the vicin- 
ity of Springfield, Mo. Two 
of the ancestors on her father’s iside, the Charles Pinkleys 
from North Carolina, were signers of the Declaration of 

Very early in life Mrs. Call would sit spellbound be- 
fore the open fire and listen to her grandmother and 
great-grandmother relate the stories of their trip 
into the Ozarks and of pioneer days. 

She has published one book, “Pioneer Tales of Eureka 
Springs and Carrol County,” is now preparing the second 
edition of this book, “Pioneer Tales of the Ozarks.’ Other 
historical novels are “Traci Blazers,” “Shifting Sands’ 
and “The Dream Garden.” 

She has written and sold hundreds of feature articles. 

Mrs. Call's work of the Ozarks is authentic. She has 
collected a great mass of data of the Ozarks which in years 
to come will be priceless. She has a great collection of 
pioneer relics and has built a pioneer type log cabin in 
which to preserve them. Among them is the old loom, the 
spinning wheel, the black iron kettles in which her fore- 

— 38 — 

bears cooked their venison and bear meat while blazing 
tne uncnarted tiaus across Kentucky to tire Ozarks, wnere 
they have lived a century and a quarter. 

Mrs. Call is the president of me Ozark Writers’ Guild 
which she founded in Eureka Springs six years ago. 

Mrs. Gall has been offered lucrative prices to write 
the stories “Colorful” of the Ozarks people, which she 
invariably turns down. She will not compromise her 
information on the Ozarks. The name of Samuel 
and Daniel Vaughan,, John Bever.y and Lewis 
Harp, her mother’s kinsmen is written largely on the early 
history of Northwest Arkansas. She has interviewed hun- 
dreds of pioneers and gone into some of the most inacces- 
sible places of the Ozarks far her stories. 

Her home is Eureka Springs, Arkansas. 


I long for the hills of home, 

Jagged peaks that rear their lofty heads, 

Blue mists that hang like a bridal v?il 

And over all their mystic beauty spreads. 


The hills with mauve and rose are rimmed. 

The valleys wrapped in shadows lie. 

As one by one pale stars come out 

To keep their silent vigil in the sky. 


— 39 — 


Born at Boonsboro, 
Arkansas, (now Cano 
Hiil) , is a native Ozark- 
ian and writes that his 
life was rather unevent-< 
ful, being born, March 
21st and according to 
traditions of constella- 
tions it was the unlucki- 
est date- of the month. 
He was for a time in the 
cattle business where he 
had the experience of 
riding the range, drink- 
ing coffee from a can, 
sleeping out in the open, 
with the rain and snow 
in his face and still did 
not find anything to yo- 
del about. 

Mr. Campbell moved 
to Fayetteville and it was here that he met and married a 
little girl from Tennessee, who was vacationing there. They 
now have three grown children. . 

Mr. Campbell writes for his own pleasure. Several of 
his poems have appeared in Hillbilly Heartbeats, a column 
by May Kennedy McCord in the Springfield Leader. 

His home is at Cane Hill, Arkansas. 

Christmas, 1941 

The Holidays have come and gone 
Just like they always did 
I enjoyed them just as much 
As when I was a kid. 

— 40 — 

Thursday, the twentieth, at 2 P. M. 

Or probably half past two. 

The Eastern stage came robing in 
And the old girl “nove” in view 

With -everything that was good to eat 
In box, in bag, and can — 

To make a Christmas dinner 

For her children and her man. 

The younger one came shooting in 
The day fore Christmas Eve, 

He stayed four days — but duty called 
So, of course, he had to leave. 

We looked not for the older one 

He is a way up in Yankee-tank 
But what he spent to make us gifts 
Will be noticed at his bank. 

The girl was coming Christmas eve 
But the son-in-law got sick. 

She thought to send a telegram 
And notify us quick. 

She said she would come up New Year's 
And bring himvif she could. 

So here they came that evening — 

Just like we thought they would „ 

A very Merry phristmas 

And a happy glad New Year 
Has been my lot in life once more, 

And my old heart’s full of cheer. 

— Boothe Campbell. 

— 41 — 

Charles Perry Clements was born at Rolla, Missouri, 
January 14, lbuo, tne son of D. lx. and May mght Clem- 
ents. lie received ms early tciucation in the scnoois of 
Phelps County, Kolia High School, and the Missouri. Uni- 
versity at Columbia, having won a scholarship to this in- 
stitute. Clements tooK journa.i&m m ms eonege course 
and came forth into the world a finished writer and 
thinker. And his fond dream of a future which included 
the hope of someaay writing “the Am rcan Move!.” 
He found time to sandwich in between hours bits of prose 
and meanwhile stored much mammal in tne back ox his 
mind for that day all writers am am of reaching, the day 
when he could write as his heait dictated. he was for 
some years teller in the Rolla estate Bank, and later be- 
came associated with the U. S. bo'.es.ry Department with 
the State Conservation Department and is now on mili- 
tary leave of absence from this wo-k, to permit his en- 
listment in the Navy. He recently visited the Ozarks on 
furlough from Hawaii where he is on shore duty the 
Navy Supply services as storekeeper first class, having 
spent the past two years in the Pacific. Recently Clements 
has published his first book of poetry, “Thoughts on the 
Midwatch,” a volume of gems of thought, written mostly 
on the Midwatch. (From midnight to four). Clements 
has one son, David Anthony Clements. His home is near 
Rolla, Mo., and going to press we understand Mr. Clem- 
ents has been promoted to Chief Petty Officer. 


On the midnight watch when the anchor’s aweigh, 
It’s a dark and lonesome turn; 

Alone with the stars and the wind and the spray, 
Alone with a heart that may yearn. 

It is time for a memory, time for a dream, 

For a thought that is wanton and free — 

When the stars burn cold and the white caps gleam 
On the face of the surging sea. 

— 42 — 

There is frost on the stars and a glow on the spume, 

Ana tne ctecK is ail dampness and chill; 

tut our tnougiits take us back xo a meadow in bloom 

Ana a farmhouse on top of a nill. 

There are musings that bring us a pang and a joy 
In tne scene that persists through the years, 

Ox a drtam that was young — and a girl and a boy 
And a happiness turned into tears. 

There are thoughts of a mountainside covered with pine 
And a trail that invites us to roam, 

Where the shadows and sunshine and love intertwine 
For the thoughts on the midwatch lead home. 

There are thoughts of the future and thoughts of the past 
Of the lights that are shining on shore ; 

There are thoughts of the port we may enter at last 
And the spirit that wanders no more. 

There are thoughts of the war and the terrible game 
Of the Fate that is moving us on; 

There are thoughts that are stirred with the thrill of a name , 

And remember a love that is gone. 


There are thoughts of a shipmate whose sailing is done 
And a body cast over the side — 

But our thoughts lead us back where thoughts were begun 
Like the ebb and the flow of the tide. 

0, the heavens are cold and the ocean is bleak 
When the watch is from midnight io four; 

And the darkness and deep have a story to speak 
In a voice from a far-away shore. 

It tells of the seasons so brief i>n their flight 
That vanish like bubbles of foam, 

For life is a cruise and a watch in the night 
On the ship that is bearing us home. 

— Charles P. Clements. 

— 43 — 

I was born June 5, 1917, 
in Prescott, Arizona, was 
graduated from Carthage, 
Missouri, Higjh School, 
1935 ; attended Rude’s 
Business College one year; 
received a B. S. in Educa- 
tion, 1940, from Central 
Missouri State Teachers 
College, Warrensburg, 
Missouri ; graduate work. 
University of Missouri. 

He started writing poe- 
try while a sophomore in 
high school, and the orig- 
inal manuscript of first 
poem carefully preserved. 

In college, he organized 
a creative correspondence 
club for spreading local 
color in verse: Edited 
Spring Flight, a magazine of creative-writing; composed 
music and made piano arrangements for musical comedy, 
produced by student group. 

Invented, designed, and built electric organ from 
ginger-ale bottles and a hair drier. 

Taught English, speech and science in Vienna, Mis- 
souri, High School. Gave considerable time to composing 
music for an opera based on story, “Sleeping Beauty,” 
Dorothy Boicourt of Kansas City completed the libretto. 

Poems published in Who’s Who in Poetry in America, 
Springfield Daily News, Kansas City Star-Times, Kansas 
City Poetry Magazine, Candor, The Bard, Westward, Drif- 
wind, Vespers, and others. Author of two books of verse, 
“Songs for the Winds” and “Ultimatum.” 

Member of Philharmonic-Symphony Society of New 
York, Metropolitan Opera Guild, Missouri-Arkansas Writ- 
ers’ and Artists’ Guild. 

Hobbies: Musical glasses. Favorite diversion: Vachel 
Lindsay interpretations. Home address: Carthage, Mo. 


They planted late in spring and cared 
For the- ground where the hard seed fell ; 
Nature and vigilance together spared 
The tender shoots too well. 

For now their labors may not last 
Till the harvest they had hoped to reap; 

To their faith in the blossoming they hold fast, 
And the growing, while they sleep. 


Then, for the final harvest all this 
Is suffered, bitter struggles, pain.... 

All for a final moment of bliss, 

All previous loss for an ultimate gain! 

And labor lost through turns of seasons 
Won’t be counted as spent in vain, 

If on a day for hard-earned reasons 
Man sees abundance of golden grain. 

—Glen Coffield. 


Was bornl in Galena, Kansas, 
one of Tri-State’s oldest towns. 
And there attended grade school. 

In the year 1913 became a pu- 
pil of Burge Hospital, in Spring- 
field, Missouri, and finished the 
three years course of nurse’s 

Soon after the United States 
declared war, in World War I, en- 
listed in the Army Nurse Corps, 
in which I served three years, two 
of them abroad. 

. I’ve only recently become interested in trying to use 
poetry as a method of expression. And hope to learn 
to write nature-poetry. 

In this effort I am encouraged by my mother, herself 
a nature-lover — of the elements in all their manifesta- 
tions. She and I hope that someday I may gather into 
poetry-sheaves all we enjoyed, together, of nature and her 
ways. Whom we found cherished no secret from discern- 
ing hearts and eyes, those years we roamed hills and 
valleys — years of my childhood. 

Although, finding it easier to behold her with rap- 
turous joy than to write of her glories, my ambition is 
to do justice to Nature, the subject — to my teacher, 


Look, didja ever see the like? 

That man a hangin’ out wet shirts, 
Those women — both withouten skirts — 
A fixin’ up a broken bike. 


I am Today, 

And so fallow. 

I was not told, 

So I mourn 

And weep my own heart’s pain, 

Who should have known 
From the very eagerness 
With which the lover came to me — 
Having only divorced Yesterday — 

That . he, 

Although I belonged to him, 

Was not mine to keep. 

I weep that I did not guess, 

That having sown 
He, abiding not to reap. 

Would hurry 
On .after Tomorrow 
Till, grown old. 

He too should mourn 
As sincerely — 

For Yesterday. 


Of all the ways the tree-clad Ozark hill 
Kay shadow-forth unfaded loveliness, 

Poet after poet may tell. May stress 
Her tender springs, her summers, autumns; thrill 
To nurtured themes ; to oft’ replenished stores 
Of beauty, peace and love ; of happy hours — 

To songs of these she jpends, obedient still. 

As the tide is docile to its moon. 

And she responds from early birds’ first tune 
Till late skies hold a brilliant sun of gold. 

That flings to her his blazonry, and lingers 
So long as ,airy-clouds, with rosy-fingers, 

Adorn her breast with splendor of dreams, to hold 
As flame against her winter-indigos. 


The wind brought me this lovely thing. 

He laid it in my hand, and I — 

Wbv. he snatched it up again! 

Still it‘s lovely blowing by. 

: — Renna Colgrove. 

— 47 — 

Walter Colley born in Lawrence 
Co., Mo., February 1; son of John 
S. and Mary (Anderson) Colley, 
descending from Virginia pioneer 
s 1 ock, the Price- Anderson-Colley 
of Revolutionary and Civil War 
history. Mr. Colley was teacher, 
Principal and County School 
Superintendent; served one term 
in Legislature . ..and assisted 
in- drafting the Buford-Colley Bill 
for the advancement of schools. 
Married Miss Margaret Bird. Is 
a Baptist, member of Knights of 
Pythias, C. of C., Royal Arch Masons, Missouri State 
Teachers’ Association and the Missouri Historical Society; 
has features published in several papers and historical 
magazines. The following poem was published in The Car- 
thage Press. 

On the first day of school in September, 1948, Mr. Col- 
ley, looking out of his window, saw his little granddaughter 
and other children all in comely dress and high spirits 
tripping along the street toward the school building. An 
image of child life was pictured in his mind. It was ex- 
pressed in the following poem: 


Out in' the tree-tops 

' The wild birds are singing 
Over the hill 

The school bell is ringing 
Here comes the school girls 
All happy and gay 
With sweet smliling faces 
And pink lingerie. 

TheKboys come strolling 
With marbles and tops 
Varying their pace ' 

With jumps and with hops. 

— 48 — 

They come to the play ground 
The swings and thj slides 
And the merry-go-round 

On which every on ; rides. 
Now comes the call bell. 

For play time its taps. 

It is school room and books 
And pencils and maps 

And teacher, a beautiful 
Grown up girl 
With neat modern dress 
And permanent curl, 
The books all neat and 
Handsomely bound 
Wherein the wisdom 
Of Sages is found. 

0 happy vacation 

With the teachings of nature! 

1 profitable school life — 

Its drill and its culture. 

These blessings our children 
Inherit today. 

These blessings must be 
For our children alway. 

— Walter Colley. 


I regard myself as a true Ozarkian. I was born in 
Newton County, Missouri, and love every reck and tree, 
every hill and valley, and every limpid stream in the 

My and mother also were born in Newton Coun- 
ty and my four grandparents were among the first white 
settlers in the district. 

One of my great-great-grandfathers was on his way to 
California, but when he saw southwest Missouri's wooded 
hills and fertile valleys, he forgot California and home- 
steaded a farm on which his descendants have lived over a 
hundred years. 

I was educated in Joplin and graduated from Joplin 
High School, beings Salutatorian of my class. After a 
year’s course of teachers training, I taught in the Joplin 
schools for a short time. 

There is nothing I enjoy writing about as much as my 
beloved Ozarks, but next to writing about them I love to 
roam among them, search for and identify their wild 
flowers and explore their lovely streams. I know there 
could be no more beautiful water in the world than the 
Ozark creeks and springs. 

Mrs. Collins is Secretary of the Tri-State Writers’ Club 
and a charter member of the Half-Century Ciub. 


Bear me up, bear me away, West Wind, 

Let me linger never more; 

I would shed this heavy mortal cloak, 

By life’s tantalizing shore. 

From the cloying soil take, West Wind. 

From its beauties let me flee, 

For in sorrow’s chain they bind me fast; 

I would be forever free. 

Gay West Wind you wand ' r where you will, 

Love and duty hold you not; 

But for me are always ties that bind, 

Ties that may not be forgot. 

—Stella Smith Collins. 

— 50 — 


Born near Aurora, Missouri. Married Henlry Clay 
Connell. Has two children. She has been writing poetry 
and songs for many years. Her songs have been fea- 
tured over Radio Station K.W.T.O. Her poems have been 
published in May McCord's column, “Hillbilly Heart 
Beats” in the Springfield papers; Farm Club, Mt. Vernon 
Record, and many others including the first Edition of 
the “Living Authors of the Ozarks And Their Literature.” 

Mrs. Connell is now a widow and lives on a farm with 
her only son near Larussell, Mo., Route 1. 


Spring is here! Spring is here! 

Don’t you feel it in the air? 

Little birds so bright and gay 
Johnny jump-ups on their way, 

Poke their heads up through the ground 
Stop and listen at every sound. 

Try to tag little Tulip gay 
As she passes on her way. 

Little Daffodil and Buttercup yellow 
Think Johnny is a bad little fellow. 

But the little ferns and violet blue 

Think this is a wonderful place to live in — don’t you ? 

— Ida Southworth Connell. 


Mrs. Olive Rambo Cook is 
a native of Missouri, having 
lived most of her past life 
in Livingston County, spent 
one year in Arizona and 
one year in Portland, 

She says she is not a 
poet — but really enjoys 
writing verse when the 
mood is on. 

She has had many juven- 
ile stories published in var- 
ious Children's magazines, 
and enjoys writing them. 
“The Go:den Patch” is the 
best known — appearing 
first in “Wee Wisdom” — 
and later included in Carol 
Brinks' first collection of 
“Best Short Stories for Children”, 1984. 

Mrs. Cook also does feature and free lance photog- 
raphy with news items. She is a member of the 
Scribblers’ Club of Chillicothe, Mo., Writers’ Guild and 
League of Western Writers. Her hobbies are photography, 
weaving and sketching. 

She has one son in the service. 


Oh, nothing is ever so still as a house, 
When a boy has gone. 

Even the walls seem lis + ening 

Hushed for his whistle and song. 

Radios wait for the touch of his hands, 
Only the clock ticks on. 

Oh, nothing is ever so s + ill as a house, 
When a boy has gone. 



In ancient times each house contained 
An upper room of quietness and peace. 

A place where God seemed very near 
And troubled souls and careworn hearts, 
Found sweet relief. 

And wild confusion reigns in every land 
Today, when all the world is torn with strife 
We need again a quiet upper room, 

To there renew our hppe and faith, 

And take God’s hand. 


The things I want, are things 
That gold could never buy. 

Things not tangible, yet with a permanence 
That time defies. 

I want a Faith, 

That goes with me along the way, 

And keeps my courage high and vision still undimmed 
At close of day. 

I want a Hope, 

A hope serene and strong 
That laughs at fear and meets defeat and hardship 
With a song. 

And .1 want Love, 

A love that understands 

And strives to heal the wounds that hate has made 
Across the land. 

These are the things I covet, 

Things that gold could never buy. 

For without Faith and Hope and Love, 

Peace will forever die. 

— Olive Rambo Cook. 


Rorn in Detroit, Michigan. When she was three, 
the family moved to Chicago where she was educated 
in the Public Schools and Northwestern University 
School of Commerce. Married to Guy W. Cornwell in 1903. 
In 1912 moved to Oak Park, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago 
Moved to Phelps County, Missouri, in 1936, and has been 
a resident of Eolla since 1942. She is the mother of 
five children, all married. 

After that of being a mother, her hobbies are poetry, 
writing and citizenship. These interests led her into 
radio work in which she used her talents for a number of 
years. She wrote and directed playlets before clubs and 
on the radio. Since coming to the Ozarks she has con- 
tinued her literary work, contributing to newspapers, 
periodicals and in club work, as well as in writing and di- 
recting playlets on citizenship. 

She is a member of the Gasconade Writers Guild and 
several Clubs in Rolla. 


I like the farm, and sing its praise, 

One puzzling question, though, I raise: 
I like the busy buzzing bees, 

The birds and flowers, and the trees, 
The cow with almost human eyes, 

The bleating sheep, the owl so wise, 
The pigs that always want to eat, 

The gorgeous clouds, the golden wheat, 
The croaking frogs, the chickens, too, 
The squirrels with so much to do, 

The turkeys, geese, and ducklings, dear, 
The guinea hens with calls so queer. 
The rabbits, dogs, and old, gray cat, 
The chip-munk, ’possum, and the bat, 
But there is one that bothers me, 

And wakes me up at half -past three; 

Do tell me please, I want to know 
Just why that rooster has to crow. 

— 54 — 


New Years are a precious substance 
By which time is measured; 
Giving man these precious hours 
To be mourned, or treasured. 


If all the mothers in the world 
Were patterned after you. 

The human race would kinder grow. 

And hate would vanish, too. 

For tots would learn the golden rule. 
Then by it would abide; 

And good will would soon reign supreme 
If each had such a guide. 

So here’s a tribute. Mother dear. 

That should not go untold: 

May all the mothers yet to come 
Be fashioned in your mold! 


Pipe away, dear little tree toad. 

Tell the world that rain is due; 

Carry on as weather prophet. 

If that task depends on you. 

Swell with pride and give your message. 
Then when rain begins to fall. 

Rest your tired vocal organs 
’Til you have another call. 

— Emma R. Cornwell. 


Hellen Gleaves Craker 
was born in Monett, Mis- 
souri, to Harold B. and 
Dicey Shipley Gleaves on 
Friday, March 17, but be- 
ing neither Irish nor su- 
perstitious it seems to her 
that Friday is as good as 
any to enter this so called 
“Vale of tears.” The Ship- 
leys are distant relatives 
of Abraham Lincoln. 

She was forced to give 
up her schooling because 
of blindness, but after a 
Lw years the condition 
cleared away and with it 
rh urge to write returned. 
H r work has appeared in 
Illustrated News, Journal Post, Kansas Ci y Star, Youths 
Standard, Monett Daily Times/Springfield Daily News; 
Hillbilly Heartbeats by May K. McCord, and others. 
She published a little booklet “Reflections” in 1989 under 
the name of H'llen Gleaves Nunn. She was married to 
Clovis D. Craker, 1940, who is employed by the Rock Island 
Railroad. (Her pet peeve is being called, Mrs. Cracker). 
Her home is in Silv’s, Illinois. Her son is on an aircraft 
carrier in the Pacific. 


Say not “good-bye” as tho our love 
Could end in parting ever, 

Our dreams must perish, paths divert, 

As golden ties we sever. 

For in my heart a sacred shrine 

The flame of love keeps burning, 

And f ime and tempest passing by 
Will never cease its yearning. 



1917 — 1944 

That other April afternoon 
You smiled and said “Good-bye”, 

And watched your heart go marching off 
With pride and courage high. 

And now it's April once again 
And you must smile and say, 

"Your father, Dear, would understand 
It IS the only way!” 

Soon there will be red poppies and 
TWO crosses, Reaming, whiter 
O’er Flanders Field their spirits meet 
One tortured, flaming night. 

Choke back your tears, your two gold stars 
Will light the path for you ; 

Perhaps some April afternoon 
You’ll join their rendezvous! 


I’m not alone though all be dead. 

I still have faith and up ahead 
A gleam of hope and courage, too. 

And these three things will see me through 
But should they fail, and all be lost, 

I will not rail or count the cost. 

For tho I lie beneath the sod 
I’m not alone, there’s always God. 


Quietly ... So gently tucking me in 
Silencing, slowly, the street’s noisy din; 
Firelight a glowing, lights turned down low; 
Winter is spreading her blanket of snow. 
Whispering, crooning, seeming to sing: 

Sleep, sleep, my dear on*\ and dream it is Soring. 

— Hellen Gleaves Craker. 

- 57 — 

Opal Crabtree, born in 
Eufaula, Oklahoma, in 
1915, of Irish, Dutcn and 
Cherokee India n extrac ion, 
grew up in Indian neighbor- 
hood. She is truly a child 
of the hill country, with a 
sweet, shy nature. Deriv- 
ing much pleasure from the 
common things to be found 
in the deep forest, a lover 
of flowers, sunset, dawn, 
the rain and such things 
that was every day life to 
her. Her home is in Glen 
Pool, Oklahoma. 


Still is the night though I am so weary. 

The intense darkness lingers on. 

Tossing restlessly I wait for the sunrise 
Soothed by the night winds whispering song. 
While I wait in the hush of the midnight 
A dew laden breeze floats wearily by 
A small voice floats in wilh the fragrance 
Along with the night winds gentle sigh. 

Still is the night, calm is my spirit 
Darkness and shadow cover the land 
I hear a sweet voice, I’m safe in His presence 
Touched by the Saviour’s kindly hand. 

The hand that often has touched and healed me, 
Leads me safely into the light. 

Sheltered by one whose love never fails me, 
There in the cool calm peace of the night.' 

— 58 — 


When the weary day fades softly 
Into the dimness of the night. 

When the firefly lights the shadows 
In the moon’s transparent light 
Drinking deeply of the starlight 
I dream of one last dawn 
In one thought of sweet remembrance 
The lovely day is gone. 

The shadows left their folded wings 
And with one breathless sigh. 

The clouds drift lazily along 
The path across the sky. 

While sorting out the many things 
I have hidden in my heart 
I saw our likeness in the clouds 
We have drifted far apart. 

One breach of separation 
That might well have been repaired 
With one word of understanding 
Half our sorrow might be spared. 

All the happiness we once had known; 
When you lingered for awhile 
Came back to me in memory; 

Your words framed with a smile. 

I thought of all the tenderness we lost 
As we tried to live 
How much precious joy it cost us 
By our failing to forgive. 

I’m looking back upon life’s day 
Sifting the false from the true 
Wondering if the burden in my heart 
Is really love for you. 

I watch the clouds go sailing by. 

Life is such a mystery 

I’m praying that the floating clouds 

Will bring you home to me. 

— Opal Crabtree. 

— 59 


Soon after my father, Charles Wood, an Englishman, 
was discharged hom me f ederal Army, he and his pal, 
Sol Blandon, decided to go to an English settlement in 
Southwest Missouri, named for an English nobleman, the 
Earl of Granby. They arrived in 1866. I now recall 
only tne following Englishmen who were there upon 

their arrival: Bill Chester, Marshall, Bill Thoms, 

Dick Bennett, Beamer, Ambro Martin, Judge 

Hersey, Harry Tamlyn, Hill Knight, Charley Elliot. 
Father wonted for Elliot in a grosery stores Married my 
motner in 1866, and I was born m 1868. Father, Bennett, 
Thoms, Beamtr and Knight all moved to the new diggens, 
Joplin, in 1871. We lived with Charley Watters family 
till he built a shack; board floor, canvas roof, no doors 
or windows; located due west of rail fence corner of 
John Cox’s faim. Dad and Beamer soon struck a shallow 
Lad mine in K. C. lottcm. Th ( is enabled him to buy 
a lot at corner of Hill and Galena Streets and he built 
a home there. My only brother, Walter, was born in 1871, 
the first boy babe born in Joplin. My mother passed away 
soon after and the new babe was reared by my maternal 
grandmother in Ellis County, Texas. Wm. Thomas, 
Bennett, Knight and Dad moved again in 1874 to the town 
of Carterville and Webb. Charley Elliott moved from 
Gramby to Center Creek P. 0. — later Minesville and now 
Orongo. He became a leading citizen there. 

Thoms located on corner of Main and Daugherty 
where Teel’s Drug is now located. A Webb Street is named 
for Thomas. Thomas struck big lead and zinc, and built the 
first custom crusher and smelter in the mining district. 
Dad and Bill Knight were his ground bosses. I went from 
Joplin to Carterville in 1875, to live with dad. Had a 
home there 65 years. Always lived in sight of a “tailing 
p'ile,” till doming west. 

Dad's brother came from England in 1880. 1 went home 
with him in 1880. Lived near Manchester. It was Merrie 
England then and very lovely. Returned to Carterville 
in 1884; then to grandmother’s in Texas; then home to 

- 60 — 

Cotty College, Nevada, Mo. Participated in Cotty College's 
first graduation exercises. One graduate — Olive Gatewood. 
Upon my return to Carterviile, began teaching in the old 
frame building; -taught four yeais. Married William L. 
Crenshaw in 1892. We moved to the Ozarks in 1900, across 
the Gasconade, “yan”- side of Nebo, Laclede County. Our 
home was at the head of the Big “Holler,” that was east 
and ended at Bradford's ford on the Rofrdeau River. 
On our first fourth of July we went to a fish fry at the 
Gasconade ford, east of Hicks Car.oli‘s farm. The next 
fourth to a Masonic picnic at Plato. 

Moved back to our old heme n Carterviile in 1891, 
on account of the “big drouth,” no feed for stock. Husband 
died in 1905. Back to schoolroom in 1907, having accepted 
principalship of Jamestown School, in 3rd ward of Carter- 
ville, under Prof. Bailey. Continued 21 consecutive 
years. Pupils all moved to Pitcher. Was then transferred 
to Carterviile Central; there 6 more years — 31 years in 
Carterviile. With 12 years public school, college, and 
teaching Pve spent 45 years in school, besides extra cur- 
riculum. Now pleasantly situated among five of my chil- 
dren in Los Angeles, California, is very beautiful, also very 
artificial. Except for the sycamore *rees along living 
streams and tfye California holly everything has been 
transplanted here and has to have much water. We like 
our new home — fine, cool nights, and economic conditions 
excellent. My only soldier, Wm. H., is a Naval Lieutenant 
(j. g.) located in Boston, Mass. Two daughters are in cler- 
ical work, and two sons and one daughter in defense work. 

— Mrs. William H. Crenshaw. 



Mr. J. H. Clonts was born and lived in Crawford Coun- 
ty, Mo„ for 50 years, is a farmer and teacher. Education 
in Steeiville schools and University of Missouri. 

Married and has six daughters and one son. One daugh- 
ter is a WAC in England, one a teacher, one employed at 
Curtis-Wright in St. Louis, one at home and twin daugh- 
ters, freshmen at Steeiville High. His only son is stationed 
on Attu. All have attended University in Missouri except 
twin girls who are yet in High School. 

Mr. Clonts has written verse for 30 years as the urge 
comes and for his own pleasure. He loves wooded hills and 
clear streams of the Ozark region, which are the inspira- 
tion of many of his beautiful verses. 

His home is near Steeiville, Mo. 


“Sorghum” time among our hills, 
Season at its best; 

Heat at noon, morning chills; 

No need for any rest. 

Wildlife scurrying everywhere, 
Ozark fall is here. 

Everything is in a stir, 

Happiest time of year. 


Out over seas, 

Up in the air, 

Among the trees, 

They’re everywhere. 

For Freedom’s Peace, 

For you and me — 

Till war shall cease, 


— 62 — 

— J. H. Clonts. 


A native of Arkansas. 
Born near Rison, Arkansas, 
in a log cabm — one point he 
has in common with Abra- 
ham Lincoln. Educated in 
the common schools of Ar- 
kansas. Took A. B. degree 
from Ouachita College. First 
M. A. degree from Louisiana 
State University. Taught in 
the public elementary schools 
of Arkansas and served as 
High School Principal and 
City Superintendent in Ar- 
kansas and Oklahoma. Parish 
Superintendent in Louisiana 
— West Feliciana Parish. 
Professor of Education and 
Psychology, Southwestern 
State Teachers College. Dean and Acting President of the 
Oklahoma Baptist University, Shawnee, Oklahoma. Pres- 
ident cf Jonesboro (Ark.) Baptist College. Now Profes- 
sor of Psychology and Philosophy Arkansas A. & M. Col- 
lege, Monticello, Ark. Received the M. A. and the Ph. Di. 
degrees from Teachers College, Columbia University. 
Went through an officer’s training school in the first 
World War, Ft. Monroe, Va. Accepted commission as 
First Lieutenant in C. A. Reserves. Now a Major in the 
C. A. Reserves. 

By Bob Crump 

Weekly Co Vmn fhi\ Advance-Mont'icelloian, 
Monticello, Arkansas. 

Somr time ago, when London was beino* bombed so 
mercilessly. I heal'd a remarkable broadcast from London. 
It wa« a nightingale singing. 

This was my first time to hear a nightingale sing. I 
mav never hear another one. But I will have th Q memory 
of these lovely notes so clear and fearless emanating from 

— 63 — 

a city in which there was much sorrow and desolation. 
But also in that cay were Courage and Determination. 
And, amid it ad, an appreciation cf the beautiful, for the 
song of the nightmgaa was being broadcast to the world. 

In this old world of ours, there are wars and terrors 
which ride by night and by day. But there are also 
things of beauty and grandeur to gladden our hearts if 
Only we keep attuned to the beautiful. 

A war correspondent speaking from Spain, took time 
to mention that he had just witnessed one of the most 
wonderful sunsets he had ever s^en. Do we take 
time to look upon them? If so, a feeling of p ace steals 
over us and a song of thanksgiving comes out of our 

Then there is the sweet smile of the baby, and the 
tender smile of the maid. The air about us is fined with 
rich music. We have but to “tune in” to hear it. 

There is a condition of the soul we sometimes find in 
others or may reach ourselves wherein all beauty has 
lost its appeal. The mind and heart are no longer re- 
sponsive. All has become as “sounding brass and tinkling 

Darwin once said that he had been so engrossed 
in working out his theories that he had lost all appre- 
ciation of music and poetry. He warned others to avoid 
his mistake and suggested that we should read some, good 
poetry and listen to some good music eve:y day. Thus, 
we may keep alive our love for and appreciation of ma- 
terials that feed the soul. 

We are taught that the beauty we see exists in our 
own minds. How desolate and dreary the mind which 
sees no beauty anywhere. 

The power to perceive beauty appears to be a human 
attribute. A horse and - his rider toil up a mountain- 
side. They reach the top just as the sun is s°nding out 
its last golden rays. The rider releases he's horse which 
immediately starts grazing on the luscious grass. The 
rider forgets his own weariness and loses himself in the 
contemplation of a marvelous sunset. The horse is un- 
affected by the scenery. 

— 64 — 

The time for enjoying the beautiful is now. The 
beauty is all about us if only we have eyes to see it. 
We can't afford to wait for some future day when 
Peace shall again prevail, temporarily on earth. 

Every morning, rosy fringed Aurora opens the gates 
of Dawn. Apollo rides the sun chariot across the sky. 
The sun sinks to rest in resplendent colors. The stars, 
the forget-me-nots of the angels, blossom in the infinite 
meadows of Heaven. 

Let us be alert to seize upon and enjoy every ves- 
tige of beauty given to us by the Creator. Life was meant 
to be enjoyable. — Seek beauty. Radiate beauty if you 

From a darkened studio in London town, I hear a 
nightingale singing. 

Bonnie Lela Crump was 
born in Aubrey, Arkansas, on 
“The Brown Plantation.” Her 
parents moved to Mountain 
Home, Arkansas. Then to 
pioneer in Oklahoma. At 
Cammauche, Oklahoma, she 
attended school with Indian 
children. These different 
homes gave her a colorful 
background and a better un- 
derstanding of the different 
races. She attended Carr 
Burdette College, Sherman, 

Texas, and Epworth Univer- 
sity, Oklahoma City, Okla. 

She was married to Rob- 
ert E. Crump. 

Mrs. Crump taught in the 
Primary Department of the 
Julius Freyman Public School, St. Francisville, Louisiana, 
then later continued her studies at Southeastern State 

— 65 — 

Teachers College, Durant, Oklahoma, where she received 
her A. JB. degree and was offered the position of Critic 
Training Teacher in the Primary Department of the same 
College. In 1922, she received her master’s degree (M. 
A.) from Oklahoma University, Norman, Oklahoma, and 
her Ph. D. from Teachers College, Columbia University, 
New York City, in 1932. She was associate professor in 
Education at Durant Teachers College two summers and 
Supervisor of Elementairy Grades in Okiahoma Baptist 
University, Shawnee, Oklahoma, one summer session. 

Mrs. Crump is Field Secretary for National Kinder- 
garten Association for the State of Arkansas, has also 
held this position in Oklahoma, and State Chairman of 
Creative Arts, Arkansas Division of A. A. U. W. A mem- 
ber of National League of American Pen Women (Ark. 
Div., Little Rock) ; Arkansas Authors and Composers 
(Little Rock) ; Arcadian Guild, Hot Springs ; National 
Writers and Sorois Club. She won the State Poetry Prize 
awarded by A.F.W.C. 1941 for a poem, “Springtime Down 
In Arkansas”. Also a Chevrolet car; National Rexall Es- 
say Contest. She writes poetry, songs, short stories, 
children’s books, plays and pageants and a newspaper col- 
umn (now and then) in The Advance-Montieelloian, 
Monticello, Arkansas, “I Wonder.” 


What is your wish? 

I asked a little maid. 

With small face lifted toward the stars. 

And wistful eyes, dew-laid. 

What is my wish? 

Well ’tis this: 

That my soldier daddy could be here 
And Mummy’s heart woud know no fear. 

What is your wish? 

I asked a refugee old and gray, 

As listless eyes wandered far away, 

And tell-tale tear-drops on eyelids lay. 

What is mv ■wish ? 

— 66 — 

Well, ’tis this: 

i wisn my nome-land far away, 

Cuuid be as it was another day. 

What is my wish? 

I asked myself. 

I wish with all my heart to-day 
Peace could reign and love hold sway. 


When doubts prevail 
And fears assail — 

Start not to moping! 

Dream some, yes, but be up and doing ; 
Cling to the faith, your goal pursuing, 

C r ase not your hoping) 

Bonnie Lela Crump. 

— *— * 88 « 


Minnie Squires Cope was bcrn in Maysville, Ken- 
tucky, to Mr. and Mrs. John Squires, and has Lved in 
the Ozark region for 56 years. 

Married William Martin Cope in Springfield, Mo., in 
1918. Has one son, Welborn. Writes short stories and 
loves the Ozark hills and beautiful clear sparkling 
streams. They have been a source of inspiration to her 
when sorrow was deepest. She turned to the window and 
gazed for a time seeming to draw strength from the hills. 
Ozark Mountains are little mountains. I am a. little fel- 
low, too. Life can be beautiful, too, like our beautiful 
hills. Some way troubles grow small while viewing our 
dear Ozarks. 

Mrs. Cope lives at Overland, Mo., with her husband 
and son where she writes for several papers and maga- 

— 67 — 


Born in Kentucky. 
When about five years of 
age his parents moved to 
Pea Ridge, Arkansas, near 
the .bullet-scarred battle 
ground well known in the 
history of the Civil War. 
Later the family moved to 
Rogers, Arkansas. At the 
age of twenty Daniel pub- 
lished a small volume 
of poems, under the title, 
“Musings Of A Youth.” 
Because of the lofty senti- 
ments and vigorous lang- 
uage the young author re- 
ceived much favorable com- 
ment from prominent lit- 
erary people, but did not 
sell enough books to pay 
the printer. He became 
engaged in the newspaper business in western Oklahoma. 
During the next twenty years he owned or edited news- 
papers in several states. His last journalistic venture 
was as publisher of the Ozarkian Magazine, which, like 
many other ambitious literary projects, died “a-bominY 
A few years ago he was stricken with streptococcus infec- 
tion, which almost cost him his life, and from which 
he has not entirely recovered. In 1938 he issued a small 
volume of poetry, entitled '“Fallen Leaves.” He is now 
living at Alamgordo, New Mexico, and is preparing to 
publish a book of sketches and stories dealing with life 
in the Ozarks. Nearly all these stories are humorous in 
character, with a vien of backwoods philosophy. Mr. Dan- 
iel is a very interesting personality. 

— 68 — 

(Gems of Poesy, 1904) 

Oh life, the red torrent that flushes my veins, 

On hope, beloved siren with soft wooing strains, 

On love, the sweet rapture my heart leaps to hear, 

On joy, the glad laughter that brings so much cheer) 
Oh life, and oh iove — oh hope and oh joy — 

On the smile and the kiss of a maid and a boy! 

Oh the passion of youth! Oh manhood's strong thrill! 
Oh the power we know of a soul and a will! 

Oh the glory of living ! Oh magical breath ! 

Oh spirit, exultant, unfettered by death! 

This life’s swift current, this hope’s fond desire. 

This joy’s gay ripple, this love’s tender fire. 

All tell of a soul, a thing most divine — 

A symbol of God, which with flesh doth combine 
To fashion a being — a spirit in clod — 

Who dies as the grass, yet whose life is in God. 

Then shout the grand truth from earth to th% sky — 

Oh live while you may, ask heaven not why — 

For to live is divine, ’tis but human to die. 


Now on the scene, where nations fear and wait 
And dream of peace — yet flout God’s changeless law; 
There steals the streaked whelp of Greed and Hate, 
Whose hellish grin betrays a cankerous maw. 

Upon the backs of eager, care-free youth 
Ho subtly lays the damning, murderous chore 
Of blinding Reason, slaying virtuous Truth, 

That he may fill his guts with human gore. 

A smirking Hitler, with his snobbish air, 

Or Mussolini proud, with crafty spell, 

And lesser bloated mongrels who would dare 
To pave, with human hearts, the way to hell! 

What dumb, unthinking mortals here we are! 

While mumbling patriotic words aside. 

War’s shrieking laughter mocks our every plea 
Till Justice swoons where Faith and Hope have died! 

— Thomas Daniel. 

69 - 


L. Lois Day was born in 
Nebraska in 1919, to Dan- 
iel A. and Grace A. Min- 
nick. Spmt her early 
years in Nebraska, in the 
home of her grandparents. 
She began writing early. 
Won first p’ace in the col- 
umn of the People’s Forum 
and won the local and 
County “Better Housing” 
contest, while in high 
school. Moved to Benton 
County, Missouri, with her 
father in 1936. Was mar- 
ried to Mr. Day, a native 
Ozarkian, the same year, 
and says she is rapidly be- 
coming an adopted Hill- 
Billy as she is a lover of 
the hill country, which is still new to her. They have one 
small son. Mrs. Day is now teaching school, and 
arranging a collection of 1 er own poems to have pub- 
lished in book form. Mrs. Day is a Charter member of the 
Ozark Artist and Writers Guild. Her home is in Fristoe, 


As you go along life’s way 

Smile and sing a little song; 
Peace will follow your pathway. 

You will help the world along. 
You will see your smile reflected 
On a lonely traveler’s face; 

You will make him glad to be 

Close to you in life’s long race. 


A tree is a beautiful thing to see 
A lovely, living, growing thing; 

A part of Nature’s wonder cast ; 

’Twas meant o’er plants to be the king. 

It is a monument by day 

A guide through nightfall’s darkly murk 
A joy for all who really see 

The beauty of God’s handiwork. 

To me it is a gladsome song 
In times of happiness, 

In sorrow ’tis a messenger 
Of God, in my distress. 

From spring and on through autumn 
It never knows death’s knife ; • 

A tree is God’s own promise. 

Of rich, eternal life. 

— L. Lois Day, 

• — 71 - 

SGT. L. P. DA /IS 
Born at Davisville, Mo., 
where he grew to manhood. 
Attended Northeast Mis- 
souri State Teachers Col- 
lege, at Maryville, Mo. 

Joined the Armed Ser- 
vice in September, 1940. 
Basic Training at Mc- 
Chord Field, Tacoma, 
Wash. Then to Spokane, 
Wash., January, 1941, and 
overseas June 21, 1942. 

Was married to Luella 
Therriauit in March, 1942, 
in Idaho. 

Mr. Davis has composed 
poems since grade school 
day, and is now publishing 
a full sized fiction story, 
entitled “Out From The 
Hills,” excerpts from which 

By Sgt. L. P. Davis 

The store post office was sort of an unorganized win- 
ter club for these men but it functioned just as smoothly 
as though it was run by a Vanderbilt on Fifth Avenue, and 
the men got the same kick out of it as if the water bucket 
down on the end of the counter with the long handled dip- 
per were a cocktail fountain in a swank club. Some of 
those stories that were told will forever live in my memory. 

Summer came and Indian Summer, the most beautiful 
interlude ' that comes to the hill?, followed. The beauti- 
ful haze which Indian Summer threw over the hil’s that 
autumn never told anyone that the strange stillness would 
end in tragedy for my family. 

Sunday School is still a must down here. I can still 
see Pop as he looked out over his horn rimmed glasses and 

— 72 — 

said “Can you lead that song, Roy?” or “Would you lead 
that, Will?” Pop knew they wouldn’t. But he liked to lead 
the choir anyway. He was always superintendent and 
Bible teacher. That was his greatest pleasure in later 

There seemed to be an epidemic of babies around 
home that year. And I recall distinctly how old Doug Con- 
stan used to spit his tobacco juice just which ever way 
he happened to be turned and say, ’Y Gad every man in 
the country froze his foot this winter leavin’ it from under 
the kivers ready to run for the doctor.” The men just 
all sit around Pop’s store and post office gossiping about 
what the old woman heard from one of the kids who in 
turn had heard it from another kid at school. The basis 
of rumors was never questioned then, for who cared so 
long as they provided topic for conservation for these 

men of the hills on long winter days. 

* * $ $ $ $ $ 

It is with a certain inward pride that I can say to my 
comrades queries, “I’m from Missouri.” 

God and nature gave we people of the hills a supreme 
right to be proud. 


Katharine Murdoch Davis lives in Siloam Springs, 
Arkansas, where she assists her husband in the work of 
the Bar D Press. In their capacity of publishers the 
Davises have brought out the work of numerous Ozark 
writers. Mrs. Davis is state chairman for poetry of the 
Woman Federated Clubs of Arkansas. Her work in prose 
and verse has appeared in many American and British pub- 
lications and she is a frequent contributor to the Arkansas 
Gazette. She is author of two books of verse: “Cae dman ’g 
Angel and Other Poems,” published by Elkin Matthews, 
London, and “The Broken Necklace” published in Arkansas. 

— 73 — 


Hill-poet, philosopher, teacher, col- 
umnist, was born in her “Hills O’ Shan- 
non,” and it matters not when, for her 
heart is eternally young. Educated in 
the Dent County public schools and the 
colleges of Springfield, she taught for 
several years. In 1908 she was mar- 
ried to Joseph Doms, also a teacher, 
and together they enjoyed their career as teachers until 
the birth of their daughter, Mayrose, and later their son, 
Francis Joseph, after which they moved to Salem, Mis- 
souri, where Mr. Doms went into business. Her son is in 
the armed forces and her daughter serving with the War 
Department as stenographer. Her husband died in 1933. 

Her poetry, which touches the skies in its limitless- 
ness and beauty, has been an inspiration to her readers 
for many years. Her column in the Salem news, “Along 
the Road,” is gripping in its hill-lore and its fine philoso- 
phy, and enjoys a fine following. 

Her poem “Drouth” has received much acclaim. She 
has appeared in “Trees,” a Sidney Lanier Memorial” pub- 
lished by Dr. Melton of the U. of Georgia, several anthol- 
ogies, among them Mitre Press, London; Honorable Men- 
tion in Poet Laur'ate Contest, Ozarks, 1938, appeared in 
“News Poets” Springfield Newspapers, Inc., and has en- 
joyed far flung success with "her poetry with a message 
to the human heart. She resides at Salem, Mo. Chief 
hobby that of being a real mother to. two wonderful chil- 
dren to whom she has been both father and mother. 
Known as the “Grand Woman of Salem.” She is a mem- 
ber of Ozarkian-Hillcrofters, Charter member Gasconade 
Writers Guild and other literary groups. 


Hills o’ Shannon, Oh Hills o’ Shannon, 

Flung from the borders of paradise, 

Fragments left from some mountain land, 
Fashioned, adorned by the Master’s hand; 

An eden spot for the home of man, on 

— 74 — 

The sunbright slopes of the Hills o’ Shannon. 
Hills o’ Shannon, Oh Hills, o’ Shannon, 
Bock-ribbed, pine-crowned cloistered fanes. 
Where one may hear in the evening' dim, 
Angel spirits commune with Him, 

When He comes to walk and talk with man on 
The .white hint trails of the Hills o’ Shannon. 
Hills o’ Shannon, Oh Hills o’ Shannon, 

Cedary hills of prophecy. 

Calling to me through ceaseless strife. 

Bring back to you my waning life. 

Bow at your sunny shrines again. 

Home to the '“Hills,” Oh Hills o’ Shannon. 

(March 1st, 1943) 

Today was just about the same 
As any other day. 

Small chores to do, some errands run 
I’m neither sad nor gay; 

But somehow I cannot go quite 
So blithely on my way; 

I gave my eighteen-y ear-old son 
To Uncle Sam today. 

I am just another mother. 

He is just another son; 

We both know that way out yonder 
Is a job that must be done; 

He is needed now to help them. 

He must go and I must stay; 

And smile the while, I gave my son 
To Uncle Sam today. 

Oh, Uncle Sam will care for him. 

And God will lend a hand; 

Back home we’ll share the sacrifice — 

Save Freedom’s Fatherland; 

So grief and wild emotion, 

I can firmly pack away; 

And smile the while, I gave my son 
To Uncle Sam today. 

— 75 — 

— May E. Dorns. 


Born February 16, 1914, the son of Oma Hawkins and 
Charles Edward Duncan; graduated from Rolla High 
School in 1934. Began his career of poetry writing in high 
school days when he became a protege of May Kennedy 
McCord, and to her he gives all credit of his success — 
second only to his mother. After high school he did a 
vear of giobe-trotting, then set himself to the labor of 
love of maintaining a home for his mother, which was his 
highest aim until called by Uncle Sam. 

He is a charter member and vice-president of the Gas- 
conade Writers’ Guild; Member Missouri Writers’ Guild; 
Ozarks Press Association, Ozarkian-Hillerofters, Missouri 


Historical Society, Eugene Field Society. He is a cartoon- 
ist and artist of note. 

Known as the poet of the Gasconade. H? has immor- 
talized the Gasconade River of Phelps and Maries County 
in his inimitable river songs. The Gasconade Writers’ 
Guild was founded on his birthday and named in his honor. 
Has two published books, “Singing Gasconade” Bar-D-1940 
and “Bloomgarden” Andre Pub. 1942. Has appeared in 
many magazines, papers and anthologies both here and in 
England. He is Writing a book which covers local color 
and history of his mother’s family. Is a direct descendant 
of Alfred Lord Tennyson. Of fine old pioneer stock, he 
enjoys a position in the Literary World seldom attained 
by one of his youth. 

While stationed at Fort Knox, he staged an all soldier 
show each Saturday night over a For + Knox Radio Station. 
Now stationed at Camp Chaffee, Arkansas, writes sport 
articles for Ft. Smith papers, and conducts a column — 
“Dog-face Doggerel” — in Rolla New Era. 

He has attained the rank of Sergeant in the service. 
His home is in Rolla, Mo. 


Then money an’ position, they don’t mean a dog-goned thing 
When it’s April in Missouri and the river waters sing, 

To a feller who’s a-wishin’ fer the things that God has 

Like a peaceful Ozark river — like Missouri’s Gasconade. 
I’m aGongin’ fer some campin’ when the dogwood blossoms 

An’ the hills dress up in greenery an’ stage their spring 
style show, 

I start itchin’ fer the river an’ my battered army cot — 
Seems I smell the rich brown coffee bubblin’ over in the pot. 
When it’s April in Missouri an’ the river waters sing, 

I’m a-longin’ fer the simple ways that Ozark life can bring ; 
When the city’s gettin’ stuffy I’m a-gettin’ out o’ line, 
An’ I’m keen on scratchin’ gravel fer that Gasconade of 

— 77 — 


A dollar-fifty suitcase, a tooth brush and a comb, 

A ticket on a choo-choo and a soldier bound for home. 
Seated by a window peering out with eager eye, 

He’s just a home-bound private, a soldier — such as I. 

The train pulls in the station, folks are rushing here and 

And he searches for a lady, for a mother’s silvery hair ; 
Now she sees him and she smiles a bit, a tear is in her eye, 
‘Tm happy, son, to see you — that’s Why I had to cry ; 

It might be Jim or Johnny, or just plain Bill or Tom — 
He’s a soldier boy on furlough goin’ home to see his Mom. 


Sparkling little raindrops 
Falling soft and free. 

Awakening the flowers 

And the hearts of you and me. 
Glistening, tender raindrops 
Mingling, with the sod, 

A poet’s inspiration, 

A mastercraft of God. 

(Poetry Column: Pauline Schlagel 
McCabe, Miller Co. Autogram) 


In fancy oft I wander 
Far from my native shore, 

And I see my self in grandeur 
Such as ne’er I saw before ; 

How I visualize my greatness, 

How I revel in my lot 
Of being all the great things 
That I know I’m really not. 

Then I suddenly awaken 

From that synthetic-greatnes clutch, 

And go back to realism 

Just being nothing much. 

— Herb Duncan 

This space was kindly donated to Herb Duncan 
by his brother, Virgil Duncan. 

— 78 — 


Virgil Leroy Duncan, son' 
of Edward and Oma Haw- 
kins Duncan, did not turn to 
writing seriously, being sat- 
isfied with dashing off now 
and then verse in lighter 
vein for his own amusement 
and that of his friends. 

P.ather than trying the Muse, 

Duncan is satisfied with 
tasking in the limelight of 
Lis famous poet-brother, Sgt. 

Ifdrb Duncan, “Poet of the 

Young Duncan, now in 
his 25th year, is in the ser- 
vice being stationed at pres- 
ent at Milwaukee, Wiscon- 
sin, where he is on Military 
Police duty. . After the war he plans to return to his home 
in Rolla there to again take up life where he left off when 
he entered the service. 


It’s quite all right to have a date, / 

A beautiful blonde is human bait..', 

It’s quite all right when her dad interferes 
And says the young man is soak r d with beers. 

It's quite all right for him to remark 
That petting’s 0. K. . . . but not in the dark. 

IPs quite all right if he thinks me a bum ; 

When in comes his daughter tanked up on rum; 

It’s quite all right . . . and my conscience is clear — 

I’m always a gentleman, even when “lit” on beer; 

His daughter’s a lady . . . and what makes ME sore - 
Is ... HE DOESN’ T TRUST ME... but it’s happened before. 

i — Virgil Duncan. 

— 79 — 


Born at Peru, Nebraska, 
January 21, 1874. Seventh 
of eleven children. Reared 
near Old Helena, a few miles 
west of Cook, Nebraska. 

Was inspired by tne poems 
of Doc Bixby in the Nebraska 
Journal and impressed by the 
rythmic philosophy of Walt 
Mason, the “People’s Poet.” 

First and greatest encouragement came from the re- 
vered Miss Lawrence of Bellevue College, Nebraska, in 
1891. He said the most important thing in writing poetry 
was poetical thought. One word was his reward — “Ex- 
cellent !” 

In 1897 became a member of the “Class of 1901” Uni- 
versity Medical College, Omaha, and wrote for the Col- 
lege PULSE — made it beat 200. 

Most fun writing for Daily Democrat, Fayetteville, 

__ Worst mixup— -editing the San Carlos, California, 

Serious job telling Nebraska in 1909 that “We will 
eradicate tuberculosis in 20 years”. A score of years la- 
ter he believes that tuberculos.s will last as long as hu- 

Greatest embarrassment being taken for William 
Gibbs McAdoo during the first World War. 

Biggest scoop over country newspapers was report- 
ing the wreck of the Shenandoah. 

Offhand Stuff I like to write — 


The heck with boils and bellyaches 
And all that sort of things, 

I’d rather write of Satan 
nd Angels with their wings. 

I’d rather write but here’s my plight 
Who’d buy the doggone things. 


I failed to find the Ozarks, 

Till the year nineteen-fourteen, 

I rolled in from Kansas City, 

Breakfasted at Sulphur Springs, 

Saw charred trees stand in the clarin’ 
Saw how fields of cotton grow 
Saw the houn-dogs all a-rarin’ 

Saw the magic mistletoe. 

Soon I learned to love the Ozarks 
Spent some time at Bentonvilie 
Monte Ne, Springdale and Rogers, 

Looked wise while in Fayetteville. 

Then went eastward heart a-quiver 
To St. Paul and Pettigrew 
Where I stept across White River, 
Smallest stream I ever knew. 

Heard about the famed War Eagle 

Wildest river in the Hills 

Saw furs stretched that were illegal. 

Sampled several moonshine stills. 

Etc., Etc. — When God and 
time permits. 

— Arthur Emerson. 

— 81 


Born to Mrs. Mary Jane 
and Joshua G. McKinsey in 
Joplin, Mo. Was married 
to Mr. C. A. Elam in 1899. 
Is the mother of two girls 
and one boy. Began writ- 
ing for her own pleasure 
in 1927. She is the author 
of nearly 500 poems and 
short stories. Has pub- 
lished one book, “The 
Garden of Memories.” 


Thousands of Dads and Mothers today 
Watch eager young lads go marching away 
With tear dimmed eyes in their doors they stand 
It is for America, our beloved land \ 

And from aching hearts we can hear them pray 
God be very close to my boy today 
Protect from whatever danger there be 
And bring him back safely to me , 

In air, on sea or on the land 
Keep him in the hollow of Thy hand 1 
Thou knowest the motive that spurs him on 
Give us courage and faith while he is gone. 

And our Heavenly Father if it be Thy will • 
Bid fighting cease and guns be still 
And smile on Thy world from Heaven above 
Bring to us peace and Thy abiding love. 

— 82 — 


When you see Old Glory flying 

From the flagstaff straight and high, 

And you near it whisper to you 
And to others passing by 
■“This is a Christian Nation, and may it ever stand 
With God the one Great Ruler 
A:id the Judge of every man.” 

How it sets your blood a-tingling 
As its stars and stripes unfold, 

And your heart in praise is singing 
For security it holds. 

To this flag that stands for freedom, 

May we ever be true, 

For 'tis our flag, and our nation’s flag, 

The Red, the White and Blue. 


Midst a life of service here 
They heard the Master’s summons clear, 
A:.d slipped away with shining eyes 
To walk with Him in paradise. 

— Adocia M. Elam. 


Teresa Helen Fitzpatrick, the 
daughter of James and Annie Car- 
roll Fitzpatrick, was born and rear- 
ed on a farm near Cuba, Mo., was 
educated in the rural schools, Cuba 
High School, and St:elville Business 
and Normal Institute, and the S. E. 
Missouri Teachers College. Has 
spent her entire life in school 
teaching in the Ozark schools of 
Crawford, Jefferson and Ste.' Gene- 
vieve Counties. 

Is a member of County and State Teachers Associa- 
tions, The Alumni Associations of the S. N. & B. I. and 
Southeast Missouri Teachers College, The United Daugh- 
ters of the Confederacy, and the Marquette (the Catholic 
Students) Club of the Southeast Missouri State Teachers 
College. Author of “Water and Trees and Sky”, “A 
Prophecy,” and “The Gift To The Christ Child.” Prose 
writings: “The Dresden China Lady,” “An Ozark Fun- 
eral,” and “A Snow Storm in October.” 


Sky and water and trees 
Water and trees and sky 
With naught to break the skyline 
But an airplane sailing by. 

Sky and water and trees 
Water and trees and sky 

But the mother quail hides in the sheltering trees 
And the enemy hawk flies by. : 

Sky and water and trees 
Water and trees and sky : 

Days there are when the sky is blue 
And the winter winds howl by. 

— 84 — 

But grass will come to the bare brown slope 
And. the song birds follow after. 

And under the newly greening trees 
Will be childish song and laughter. 

Birds will come to sing in the trees 
Itobins and wrens and starlings 
While dotted among the grasses green 
The dainty wild flower darlings. 

Blood root, buttercup, anemone 
Blue bell, daisy and cover, 

While the Cardinal high above in the air. 
Warbles over and over. 

■Sky and water and trees 
Water and trees and sky 
Winter is gone, and skies are blue. 

And summer is drawing nigh. 

Published in “Wnigs Over the Classroom” 
Harbinger House, New York ' 


This is the birthday of Jesus mild 
What gift did you bring to the lowly child? 

1 brought this candle to light His way. 

I brought this blanket for His bed of hay. 

I brought this corn to the patient ox. 

I brought perfume in this gray box. 

I brought this rose to the Mother mild. 

I brought my heart to the lowly child. 

We brought the gifts of the Three Wise Men, 

Gold, frankincense and myrrh as they brought them. 

— Teresa Helen Fitzpatrick. 

- 85 - 


I was born in Chillicothe, Missouri, January 14, 
1926. I have always lived on a farm near Chillicothe and 
have always had access to the woods and a fair amount 
of leisure time. This undoubtedly accounts for my love 
of Nature. I am 17 years old now and I have been 
writing for about three years. I have had poems pub- 
lished in the local paper several times. I will soon be 
beginning my Senior year of High School. 


Ah, screaming hawk 
On distant peak 
With grasping claws 
And gaping beak. 

Perched there 

Screaming for the vast forests 
That are no more. 

Screaming for the broad prairies 
That are wheat. 

Screaming for, brothers and cousins 
and ancestors 
Solitude and peace. 

For all the things that made life a joy 
Before the coming of man. 

Driven from your most sheltered places 
By their cities and smoke and wheels 
You can only sail in the distant bide 
And sit on the inaccessible crags 
Screaming your challenge and longing. 

Ah, that I had no restraits 

That I might scream as you scream 

What a challenge. 

And dash into your battle 
Tearing, rending, uprooting, killing 
•In your defense. 

But the laws of man forbid 
So I shall not. 

Perhaps there are other ways. 

— 86 — 


I like to sit at night a bit 

Just at the close of day 

And watch the last golden sunbeams 

Slowly fade away. 

Then time of all times it seems 
That Nature is the master 
With every thing in rime 
And nothing slow nor faster. ■ 

Then too I like the twilight 
When every thing is still 
Except the soft whistling / 

Of the distant whippoorwill. 

And the cattle gently lowing 
In the barn upon the hill 
Serves to increase the quiet 
That prevails from hill to mill. 


I am time. 

I alone am free. 

None long defy me.\ 

Vast multitudes lay prostrate at my feet. 
Foolish indeed is he who prophets my defeat. 
I healer of wounds. 

I am cruel. 

I pause not. 

My march is forever. 

Mine is eternity gone. 

Mine is the future to come. 

Mine are the river and hills. „ 

Mine are the prodigious cities of today 
And of yesterday. 

And the greater ones of tomorrow. 

The endless wastes of water 
I may disperse with' a breath. 

The fate of this world and all others 
I hold in my hand. 

Mine is the power eternal. 

— 87 — 


Lives at Relfe, Phelps County, Missouri, in the home 
established by her ancestors in 1825. The daughter of 
Robert Bertley Duncan and Lucy Routt Bradford Duncan, 
descendants of Territorial Pioneers who came from South 
Carolina and Kentucky in 1819 and settled in what is now 
Phelps County, Missouri. 

sue was educated at Springdale Seminary, Relfe, 
Missouri, a private school built and endowed by her 
grandfather, Isaac Neely Bradford and Lyndsay L. Cop- 
pedge in 1859. Was married to John Herbert Freeman in 
January, 1899. 

President of School Board, Vice Chairman of Phelps 
County Democratic. Committee, Member of Board of the 
Phelps County Historical Society, etc. 

Mrs. is a direct descendant of Governor 
William Bradford of the Mayflower. All ancestors, both 
paternal and maternal, trace back to Colonial settle- 
ment. Being eligible to most Colonial and Patriotic So- 
cieties in America, as Society of Colonial Dames, Society 
of Colonial Wars, Society of Daughters of Cincinnati, Or- 
der of the Crown, National Society of Patriotic Women 
of America, Society of Americans of Royal Descent, So- 
ciety of New England Descendants, United Daughters of 
Confederacy, and was an early member of Daughters of 
the American Revolution. Five members of her family 
are engaged in the present war. 

Many writers and authors in long line of ancestors. 

The following poem written by Mrs. J. H. Freeman 
of Relfe, Mo., is dedicated to her grandsons. Jack Painter 
of Newburg, and Freeman Moore of Kansas City, and to 
all boys in the service. 


Young eyes searching the deep dark blue, 
Young hands grasping the cold gray steel,. 
Our Nation's gift to a world at war — 
Snatched from the home fires 
To free all men from the tyrant heel. 

— 88 — 

Thrust into the night 
Liberty lighting the way — 

No halting, no heeding, but stalwart and fine 
They face to the light of a glorious day. 

Carry them safely fair barque of Freedom 

Waves still before them, as they cleave the deep main 

Stars guide their course 

Through the perils and dangers 

Bring them to havens of refuge again. 

Welcome them lands of the stricken but valiant — 

Clasp their hands warmly in friendship and trust 
Theirs is the mission of mercy and justice 
Hopes shall arise again 
Now trampled in dust. 

Eagle wings bear them on pinions of safety. 

To free all men from the tyrant heel. 

Through tempest of missile 
And whirlwind of flame 

Bring them unerring to home fields at evening 
Heroes all worthy of laurels and fame. 

Prayers of your loved ones 
Stand guard on the night watch 
When veils of swift darkness descend on the plains 
Sleep sweetly soldier, soft be thy pillow — - 
.Angels are watching and dawn comes again. 

God speed the day, when the foe has been vanquished 

And the lode-star of freedom 

Shines bright ever more 

Bring back our boys from over the billows 

Silver wings gleaming and ours as of yore. 

High on the wall we shall hang the white banner 
Emblazoned the scroll their valor has won — 

There we shall kneel in our hearts’ deep devotion 
Saying, 'Founders of Liberty 
Here are your sons.’ . 

— Annie L. Freeman. 

- 89 — 


I was born in Oklahoma; was graduated from Par- 
sons, Kansas, High School. and Tyler Commercial College; 
am now working in Missouri for my B. S. 

I am associate editor of the American Courier in 
which I have each month a page “First Aid to Beginners” 
through which I try to pass my conviction that what the 
world needs most is not more poetry but more better 
poetry — and I am trying to practice what I teach but 
the more I learn, I find my goal moves a little farther 

I was poetry editor for the Kansas City Journal until 
its recent folding. We published about fifty poems per 
month in Golden Bridle. I have won a few writing hon- 
ors, too small and not numerous to make mention herein, 
but each one has been a round up the ladder I hope, the 
real payment, however, has been the pen-friends that 
h ave been interested and helpful and a handful of stu- 
dents who show talents of writing much better than their 
' .acher. 

I have four children and one husband so that it is 
only a habit to belong to the Parent Teachers Association, 
that largest and most beneficent organization in the 
world. I am working on a book, “Educatin’ Ma,” but the 
material is slow in concrete evidence. Also I have a half- 
done text book, “Poetry Need Not Beg.” 


Yesterday I spent an hour 
Inside a wild crab apple bower. 

I left the city far behind 
With all its noisome daily grind, 

'And tramped the most inviting shade 
Where cozy homes of birds are made. 

J crossed a singing carefree brook 
That mirrored me a happy look. 

I bared my feet on virgin moss 
Beside a bubbling whitecap floss, 

And reveled in a sylvan state 
That paints Missouri roseate. 

— 90 — 


In Newfoundland Quarterly 
Did you ramble with the rose ; 

Seek where downy cattail grows; 

.Walk the lady slipper walk; 

Hear the dogwood almost talk? 

Did you pass a poppy riot 

With a bob white nesting by it 
In a honeysuckle bower, 

That ambrosial-scented flower. 

Friend of mine? 

Did you trail a morning-glory 
Up some sunny promontory 
Just to listen to the trees 

Playing tag with every breeze? 

Did you sense the blue larkspur 

Springing up round where you were? 

And I wonder: Have you seen a 
Meadow blushing with verbena 
Friend of mine? 

Did you notice daisies nodding 
Alongside of milkweed podding; 

Did your nose pick out the scent 
Where jack-in-th e-pulpit went? 

Did you catch sweet William running 
Spryly over Queen Anne sunning 
:To find Johnny-jump-up hiding 

Where wild columbines went riding. 
Friend of mine? 

— Viola Gardner. 

— 91 — 


(This letter so sincere and sweet could not be im- 
proved on as an autobiography so I place it here). 
(F. McCullough). 

This carries me back to the beautiful old village of 
my childhood, Gouvemeur, Saint Lawrence County, 
New York. My father, Luther L. Gates and 
Mother moved to Iowa when I was a small child, 
from there to Cherokee, Kansas. I went back to 
our old home in New York just before Father’s 
death in 1909. 

Coming back to the Ozarks I have spent many happy 
days in Eureka Springs, last August I took a trip through 
the Ozarks, the beauties of nature God has on display. 
The beautiful trees on the hill and in the valley. A frost 
or two and you will be enchanted by the charm' of the color 
and the way He is working it out. When I think of that 
great unchanged power of mind and soul that ever upward 
yearns in me, ifiien I am certain God is there behind this 
strange vast magic of mingled autumn shades; while the 
gentle zephyrs are fanning the flowers, throwing off their 
fragrance in sweet profusion. Most of my poems deal with 
nature and personal feeling, my sincerity is unquestioned. 
No I have never published any of my poems but have made 
the world brighter for me having lived in it, so I am told, 
by sending my poems on cards of sympathy, cards of greet- 


Going fifty-fifty for fifty years, 

You have shared each other’s joys and tears. 

Since you have crossed the summit and nearing the goal 

May the evenings of y our lives be bright as sunset’s gold. 

Fifty years reflecting all the kindly cheer 

You have brought to others through each passing year. 

Floating down life’s stream together 

Each year the ties of love grow stronger. 

And now may kindly fortune hold for you in store 
All the richer blessings, this and many glad years more. 

- 92 — 


In Pastures green ? Not always ; sometimes He 
Who knoweth best, in kindness leadeth me 
In weary ways, where heavy shadows be, , 

Out of the sunshine into darkest night; 

I oft would faint with terror and with fright. 
Only for this — I know He holds my hand, i 
So, whether in the green or desert land, 

I trust although I may not understand.-^ 

And by still waters? No, not always so; 

Oftimes the heavy tempests ’round me blow. 

And o’er my soul the waves and billows go. 'i 
But when the storm beats loudest, and I cry 1 

Aloud for help, the Master standeth by, 

And whispers to my soul, ‘‘Lo it is I!” 

Above the tempest wild I hear Him say, , 
■“Beyond the darkness lies the perfect day: , 

In every path of thine I lead the way.” 

So, whether on the hill-top high and fair i 
I dwell, or in the sunless valleys where 
The shadows lie — what matter? He is there. 

And more than this ; where ’er the pathway lead. 
He gives to me no helpless, broken reed , < 

But His own hand, sufficient for my need. 

So, where He leads me I can safely go 
And in the blest hereafter I shall know 
Why, in His wisdom, He hath led me so. 

— Hattie L. Gates. , 




Hugh Gordon is an Oz- 
arkian by adoption, having 
been born and reared in 
Boone County. His great 
grandparents bn both sides 
were pioneers and among 
the founders of Columbia, 

The old Mansion built 
by his great grandfather 
in 1820 still stands. It is 
now owned by the Steph- 
ens College and is used as 
a recreation place for 
their girls. They call it 
“Gordon Manor.” 

Mr. Gordon, a lover of 
nature, has visited many 
a fisherman’s paradise up 
and down the Ozark re- 

gion and never loses interest in exploring a deep ravine 
or mountain crag where trails are dim. For 25 years Mr. 
Gordon has been a Railway Mail Clerk on the Frisco. 

He lives with his wife at the beautiful Woodlock 

Holiday House at Davisville, Missouri, and writes as a 
hobby, or as inspiration guides. 


For forty years and more I’ve fought 
The city’s noise and strife, 

But now I know that I have found 
What is the real life. 

Down where I live in Ozark Land 
Our worries seem so small, 

So many pretty things to see 
And they are free to all. 

— 94 ~ 

A crystal spring, a babbling brcok. 
Perhaps a aeer or wo. 

A good sized sack of butternuts 
To carry home with you. 

The rugged bluff, the clear Huzzah 
A-wmding on its way. 

It beats a stroll on Olive Street 
I'll say it does, * — IT1 say! 

I wish that every city man 

Could have this kind of play. 

He would not have to move down here 
But come for just a day. 

He'd SeyH^ have a finer view of life 
And we'd have won a friend, i 

And he'd come back on other days 
A pleasant time to spend. 

— Hugh Gordon. 

- 95 — 

Clara Elyn Gordon was 
born in D&yisvihe, Mis- 
souri, a native Ozarkian 
and proud of it. Is mar- 
tied to Hugh Gordon of 
Columbia, Mo. 

Began writing rhymes 
in grade school. Writes 
poetry, short stories, and 
contributes to many pub- 
lications. Some of her 
poems have received wide 
publicity in print and on 
the radio. 

She cherishes a num- 
ber of letters from fa- 
mpus people compliment- 
ing her on her work. She 
writes from the heart in- 
spired by her love for all 
nature. Her pleasing personality is noted by the many 
guests who return again and again to her home, the 
Woodlock Holiday House at Davisville, Mo. 


Does it seem possible that a lowly shrub, 
Creating thorns as it grows, 

Could hold in its bosom so rare a thing 
As a rainbow tinted rose? 

Whence came the color, the various hues 
Of gorgeously brilliant shade? 

And where, Oh Where ! in this thorny shrub 
Is that heavenly perfume made? 

Then why should we doubt man’s inner soul 
Though incased in common clay? 

Jesus gave His life to remove that doubt 
On that Glorious Easter Day. 

— 96 — 

Dedicated to the boys from “The Huddle,” a tiny vil- 
lage with less than 100 inhabitants, yet they have 28 
Stars in their Service Flag, and vas written for Staff Sgt. 
Duoyne L. McCullough, Flying Radio Man on a B-29, Feb- 
ruary, 1944. 


I’m sailing today in the “B-29,” 

To a height heretofore unknown, 

At a speed far greater than any ship 
In the whole wide world has flown. 

She’s Uncle Sam’s baby, his pride and joy, 

She is more than he dared to dream, 

She’s '“got what it takes,” oh boy, oh boy, 

She is definitely “on the beam.” 

. T’wixt, you and me, we’ve flown the sea 
And up to the starg" (well, not quite,) 

No guns known can reach her, says Uncle Sam, 

She knows not her strength nor her might. 

When Uncle gets ready, he’ll give her a name, 

’Twill be news to the world as news goes 

A glorious, marvelous Queen of the Air . . . 

(But I knew her in swaddling clothes.) 


My love is far greater because I was one 
Who tended and taught her from birth. 

Her word is my law, I’ll go where she goes, 

Though she leads to the end of the earth. 

He who has guided through limitless space 
The migratory birds in their flight 

Will guard me and that ship over uncharted seas 
To our mission . . . though dark be the night. 

What mission and where? Wouldn’t you like to know? 
So sorry . . . s’cuse please, cannot tell ; 

But a nation of FIENDS who have tortured our boys 
Shall be bombed to the bottom of hell. 

1 — Clare E. Gordon 

Don C. Grafton — poet, prose writ- 
er, song writer, musician, editor, for 
15 years president of the Tri-State 
Writers Club — is a native Missourian 
and citizen of Joplin. He has been in 
newspaper work, either as ed.tor, re- 
porter or in the composing room, since 
1888. At 17, editor and publisher of 
a country weekly . . . has had a varied 
career — trouping with circus and rep- 
ertoire companies . . . saw the last 
frontier vanish in the Oklahoma “run” 
of 1889 . . . orchestra leader in the old musical comedy 
days and vaudeville ... in 1906, wrote the first story 
about the Ozarks, entitled “The Mills of the Gods, a Story 
of the Ozark Hills;” followed later by “An Ozark Prod- 
igal,” . . . Other published short stories are: “Cupid 
Takes a Long Chance,” “A Santa Claus From Texas,” 
“Dead Leaves,” and “The Spirit of the Ozarks,” the 
latter appearing in the T. P. A. Magazine and was given 
a circulation of two million copies, and won for the author 
a special resolution of commendation from the National 
convention in Oklahoma City. . . Mr. Grafton has written 
many poems and was one of the original columnists on 
the Joplin News-Herald many years ago . . . served his 
county of Jasper in the 60th General Assembly of Mis- 
souri as representative ... He is now working on a novel 
— about half finished — which has its locale in this sector 
of Missouri, with characters who lived and moved through 
the colorful decades of the mining city of Joplin and 
district. . . . Having lived himself for many years in the 
Ozarks, he knows the manners, the customs, the language 
of the people and regrets the popular “story-ized,” east- 
ern slant given citizens of the Ozark Hills region. 


Rain drops patter on the window pane 
And bring sweet thoughts of thee. 

— 98 — 

Night winds high as if in vain 
To still a heart in reverie. 

The broken tendrils of a perfect love 
Run bloodied still Ellene. 

The mournful cries of a lovely dove 
Echo yet from yonder green. 

Could we but live and love again 
In life’s eternity; 

Could we but meet on starry plain 
And whisper fitfully; 

Could we but wing our way to Mars, 

In vaulting heaven high. 

And mingle love themes with the stars — 
On moonbeams ever lie; 

If through the years, our passage swift 
Was surely just as fleeting, 

Would not thy heart be caught adrift 
In that one happy meeting? 


- know not if, on starlit trails. 

Our souls will alien be 
I only know our barque sails 
On Love’s eternal sea. 

—Don C. Grafton. 

January 18, 1927, to be 
exact — “A baby daughter, 
Jane Starr Grant, was born 
to Mr. and Mrs. Grant. 
Then the trouble began. 
Hardly three years after we 
had a depression — no, I 
did not bring the depres- 
sion, but it came. 

Due to my Father’s 
occupation we moved about 
in several states and my 
schooling always has been 
“She’s from that state 
where the Indians come 
from”; or “She’s from the 
state where the dust bowl 
is cr whatever it may be.” 
I have never gone to the 
have always been placed 
ahead or back of where I should be, so coming to Joplin 
last fall, I was placed in the 10th Grade. 

After moving to Joplin I- discovered I had to write 
poetry about what we translated in Latin Class. Resigning 
myself to writing the poem whiich had been assigned, I 
discovered that nothing could rhyme until all of the sudden 
words formed in my nr'nd (not about Latin). Poetry or at 
least it resembled it. I kept writing and finally sent one 
to a magaz'ne and asked them if they could use it. They 
liked it and asked for another. I also entered a contest 
and won. This brings me up to the present date. 


''What d’d I dream last night 
When the night was' cold and still? 

I dreamed I stood in curling mists 
On top of a lonely hill. 

same school very long and I 

— 100 — 

The calmness of the silent night 
Made my head seem clear. 

And all at once out of the still 
Angels did I hear. 

They swelled in heavenly chorus, 

In a great and glorious song. 

As a tigure dressed in white t 
Came out from the heavenly throng. 

Her white robes flowed about her 
As she glided through the mist. 

About her throax, a necklace oi stars 
And stars around her wrist; 

Her dark hair blended with the night; 

She raised her eyes to mine. 

I dazzled by her brilliance, 

For those eyes I saw were thine. 

Thy face was shining like the sun 
When I took thy soft warm hand 
And led thee into a valley , 1 
The place of the promised land. 

Then the night began to fade 
And the sun began to rise. 

And every ray that pierced the sky 
Brought us some new surprise. 

We walked through the ancient mountains 
~We crossed the laughing brooks, 

And passed through the cool green valleys 
Explored earth’s every nook. 

Then as the sun came into view. 

We heard again God’s band 

And turning back to heaven, we walked 

Together, hand in hand. 

Now my eyes let in the light 
I am alone, ’tis true, 

But I know that in the darkest night 
I really was with you. 

— Jane Starr Grant. 


Born in the Ozarks, Ernest Paul Goggin is a true son 
of the soil. Young Goggm is with the armed forces, be- 
ing stationed at Little Creek, Virginia, at the greac Naval 
Training there. Before his enlistment in the Navy he re- 
sided at Rolla, Mo., where he is a member of the Gasconade 
Writers’ Guild. Goggin has written many poems and some 
prose, and is poetry editor of the “ ’Gator,” the magazine 
published monthly by the Naval Base at Little Creek. The 
accompanying song poem is from the pen of Mr. Goggin 
shortly before he entered the service : 


Was your father born in Ireland, 

And perhaps your mother, too? 

In the Country of the Shamrock 
Is that where they first found you? 

Your appearance says you’re Irish, 

And you have that Irish wit, 

You’re coquettish and beguiling 
And I can’t blame you a bit ; 

You’re as pretty as a picture, 

You’re as fragile as a rose, 

And I’m proud you came from Ireland 
Where the green, green Shamrock grows. 

— Chorus — 

Sure my achin’ heart is troublin’ 

Since I first left dear old Dublin, 

For I’m deep in love as anybody knows, 

I’d be happy in a shack, dear. 

If you’d let me take you back, dear, - 
To the country where the Shamrock grows. 

For if one ever loved a lassie, 

Sure I’m very fond of you, 

And I think you’re very classy 
And as sweet as momin’ dew; 

— 102 — 

Let me put my arms about you. 

Lot me kiss your dear sweet face. 

Let me hold you closely always 
In one loving, fond embrace, 

Then we’ll go back to Killarney, 

You’ll become my own sweet Rose 
And we’ll go and kiss the Blarney 
Where the gay, glad Shamrock grows. 


(Prize winning poem, ’Gator Magazine, Little Greek, 
Va., Naval Base magazine, Summer, 1943). 

Old Glory is flying 
On land and on sea. 

Old Glory is flying 
O’er all that is free ; 

So proudly display there 
Her stars and her stripes, 

;She knows we would die, 

’To make safe her rights;; 

We shall keep her waving 
And when war is through 

She’ll wave over Japan, 

Over Germany, too, 

lAnd proudly display there 
'Her Red, White and Blue. 

— Ernest Paul Goggin 


Gola Denney Hagler, 
(Mrs. Don Hagler), La Rus- 
sell, Mo. 

Born August 20th, in 
Douglas County, near Sey- 
mour, Missouri. 

Parents: William E. and 
Almedia Hartley Denney. 

Occupation : Housewife 

and Storekeeper. 

Hobbies : Reading and 

Has had several poems 
and articles printed in the 
Southwest . Missouri newspa- 
pers and; Farm Journals. 
Completed a course in journalism under Newspaper 
Institute of America in New York, N. Y., in 1942. 

Was married August 11, 1942, to Don Hagler, a 


There was an aura of gentleness about her 
'The wee little lady in faded blue, 

One felt a nobility when near her like aristocracy true 
There was a wistfulness in her cameo like face 
/As she lovingly fingered the silks, satins and lace. 

With a resigned air to the clerk she turned, 

Away from the silks for which she yearned. 

Three yards of the muslin, please, that lovely hue; 
My daughter’s eyes are azure, 

She will adore that heavenly blue. 

— 104 — 


As I go walking 
Up and down the street 
I note the faces 
Of people that I meet. 

Some are lonely and sad 
Otheir£ are joyful, gay. 

Please God let my face cheer 
Those I greet today. 

Houses like people have faces. 
Somber, cheery, glad, or blue. 
That bring you inspiration 
Or depress and sadden you. 

Please God let my house face 
A friendly one be 
Saying, “please come in 
For a cup of tea.” 

Who can ever doubt 
That God is hereabout 
When a stem shoots up 
1 And grows a buttercup? 

Beauty out of murky sod. 

Just Nature, or is it God? 

— Gola Denney Hagler, 

— — 

— 105 — 


Violet Thomas Hart- 
mann, whose poems appear 
continuously in the Kansas 
City Star, The Unity Pub- 
lications and the Grade 
Teacher Magazine, has been 
writing for 15 years. Her 
posms are copied in maga- 
zines and newspapers all 
over the United States, 
Canada and Mexico. 

In 1940 Mrs. Hartmann 
wen the go'd medal award 
for the best poem on 
“MISSOURI” given at the 
New York World’s Fair. 
She was given the Eugene 
Field Honorary member- 
ship award by the Governors of the Board of the Eugene 
Field Society for “literary skill and craftsmanship for 
your outstanding published poems,” last year. 

She was guest editor in July of the Kanass City 
Poetry Magazine. On Mother’s Day, she read from the 
pulpit of the Wayne Avenue Methodist Episcopal Church, 
a group of her Mother’s Dav poems. 

Her poems appear in the following poetry magazines : 
Verscraft, Emory University, Ga. ; The Country Bard, The 
Lantern, Kansas City Poetry Magazine and others. 

Her poems are constantly read by radio stations who 
devote time to poetry. In the Heart of America Dis- 
trict, the radio stations of the Latter Day Saints Church in 
Independence, Mo., read many of Mrs. Hartmann’s poems 
on their broadcast, “Thoughts For the Day” on Sunday 
mornings at 7 :30. She is frequently heard on the Star’s 
WDAF Radio Station, “Moonbeams” at 11 P. M. ; also the 
WHB radio station, Kansas City, Mo. 

— 106 — 


When it’s Maytime, elfin bluebells 
'tin*- their ballads through the air, 
Lady’s-slippers, fairy-tinted. 

Dance and frolic everywhere. 

When it’s Maytime in the woodland. 

Then the pink Arbutus star 

Comes with laughter, gleams with music. 

Where the gold-spun Cowslips are . , . 

In the Maytime when fawn lilies 
Call to sunbeams all the day. 

There is gladness and much singing 
in my soul, for it is May. 


Through this summer twilight 
Misty blue and cool, 

l hear the sound of cow-bells 
Across a woodsy pool. 

Then a sleepy murmur 

Of drowsy whippoorwills 

Comes faintly as the shadows 
Enfold the quiet hills. 

All this silvered silence' 

Brings again to me 

A country home ... a garden ... 

On wings of memory. \ 

Brings a moon-white pathway 

Where wisps of night wind played 

Where llovers strolled in summer 
And love-filled pledges made . . . 

I see again our farm house 

With meadows rolling wide 

And feel again its blessing \ 

Of peace at eventide 

— Violet Thomas Hartmann. 

— 107 — 

Alba, Mo. 

—Viola M. Hall, 

(Tune: ''“I Lived Ten Thousand Years Ago.) 

I’m a WAC and I’m glad that I am 

I’m proud to be in tne rank of Uncle Sam. 

I’m tiere to do and dare 

And I’ll go just anywhere 

Just as long as I am serving Uncle Sam. 

I’m here to, do my duty or to die 
\To he a WAC with honor I will try 
\No one knows when I’ll be back ; 

(Still I’m glad to be a WAC i 

!And be serving in the ranks of Uncle Sam. 


When dark clouds are gathering thick overhead. 
You’re downhearted — blue, you wish you were dead. 
Don’t give up the fight, for all thru the night. 
Someone is watching to guide you right, 

Keep up your faith, keep up your praying, 

Out of the dark clouds a voice will be saying, 

Dio not despair, I’m everywhere 
- Ready and willing your troubles to share. 

So keep up the fight 
Do that which is right, 

And someday not far off 
You'll all see the light. 

— U>8— 


Born September 11, 
1919, Anutt, Missouri, the 
son of William S. and Hazel 
Dagley Heavin. Graduat- 
ed with the class of 1937 
from Rolla High School, 
Holla, Mo. He has written 
variously, song lyrics being 
his first love. Has assist- 
ed in writing of plays and 
their production, starring 
in the folk play, “Lew 
Renshaw from Arkansas” 
in 1936-37. 

In March of 1941, he 
was married to Miss Min- 
nie Isenberg of Arlington, 
Missouri. Soon after his 
: Naval Base at Corpus 
Christi, Texas, where he has taught Metal Artcraft for the 
past year and a half. He has one son, Bill Heavin, II, 


Seeing the moon 

Seems to get my heart in tune 

Like all my dreams of you, it seems to say 

How lovely you are. 

Wondering now soon 

Fate will heal this burning wound 

That you leave in my heart each time I think 

How lovely you are. 

If you knew the moments I have spent repenting 
I know you would be a little more 
Relenting — more relenting. 

Seeing the moon 

1 Seems to get my heart in tune, 

'Hut in my dreams all I can see is just 
How lovely you are. 

— Claude Leland Heavin 
— 109 — 



The daughter of Wil- 
liam M. and Mary C. Dag- 
ley and is a native Ozark- 
ian of Anglo-Saxon Cher- 
okee Indian ancestry, her 
paternal grandmother was 
the daughter of the owner 
of a sputhern plantation 
and slaves. Two of he: 
father’s slaves came with 
her to Missouri as bound, 

Miss Dagley was married 
to her school day friend, 

Bill Heavin. They have two 
children — one son a crip- 
ple from birth, now 28, 
and a second son, Claude,! 
now 24. ** 

Because of her necessity of staying in with her crip- 
pled child, Mrs. Heavin has devoted most of her time to 
study of literary work. She is a lover of music. A 
charter member of the Ozark Playmakers; President of 
Gasconade Writers’ Guild; active member of Ozarkian- 

Hillcrofters ; Missouri Historical Society; Missouri- Ar- 
kansas Writers’ & Artists’ Guild, and many others. 

Her poems have found wide publicity in print and on 
the radio. She has two books of poems to her credit, and 
her column, “The Country Road,” in the Rolla Herald has 
won her many friends; 

Mrs. Heavin was the subject of a feature article by 
F. A. Behymer in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch of which 
she feels very honored. 

Her home is Rolla, Mo. 


A man may face grave dangers 
With calmly bated breath, 

A man may snap his fingers 
In the very jaws of death; 

— 110 — 

But when my little cripple lad 

Books up at me to say 
A . passing car is ‘pretty’. 

While other run and play. 

When every time he stumbles 
He grins and tries again 
You know ... I sometimes wonder 
Are heroes ALWAYS men? 


Stalwart fine, young 

My beloved *' 

In love with life, the world at ycur 
Vibrant young fingertips ; 

My child! Did I in giving you life 

But give you death 

Place you in the way of cannon's spray ? 
Shall you go marching away 
Keeping step with the spectres 
Of yesteryear's war? Shall their 
Hollow footfalls resound in rhythm 
with your 

Sturdy yoking stride? Or shall you 
arise again '■ 

After the horrible crisis is past ^ 

To peaceful dawns at home? Shall 
Poppies dot your laist resting place. 

And shall a cross mark your stilled heart? 

My son ! It must not be. I 

I who gave you life must have 
faith. War's grim 
Hosts must be halted. 

“They shall not pass/' 

— Hazel Dagley Heavin. 


Williams James Haynes, 
was born in St. Louis, Mo., 
August 18, 1887, of English 
and Scotch-Irish descent. 
Mother born in Missouri. 
Father in North Carolina. 
All his folks originally 
came from North Carolina, 
Kentucky and Virginia. 

Mr. Haynes is a member 
of the Kansas City Board 
of Trade, ann has a jolly 
pleasant personality. 

Writing beautiful poet- 
ry is only one of Ms hob- 

His home is in Kansas 
City, Mo. 


Oh, River long take all my song 
And bear .it to the sea 
Where rolling waves sweep o’er the graves 
Of sailoirmen like me. 

And soothe their sleep in ocean deep 
Where graves no marking show. 

Though waves roll high beneath the sky 
It’s still deep down below 

And may their rest be ever blessed. 

Oh! River take my song 
And spread it far across the bar 
Where sailor songs belong. 

— 112 — 


I c annot bear the singing, 
lus beauty hurts my heart 
And wounds but half healed over . 

Are torn again apart. 

Oh! let the silver echo 
Fall low and sweetly die 
As afterglows at sunset 
Fade out and leave the sky. 

I cannot bear the singing. 

Ah! Must I hear it again, 

;That happy, laughing, little song. 

For memory is pain. 


Come trip with me another dance 
The music's swinging free, f- 
A bright tune, a light tune, 

A tune that's full of glee. 

Come let me clasp you in my arms 
And glide away with me, 

A clear smile, a dear smile. 

No other let me see. 

For death is waiting just beyond. 

Yet would I dance away, \ 

Quite fearless, nor cheerless. 

So would I greet the day. 

For when the sun breaks through the light, 

A rendezvous I keep 

With glad death, not sad death, 

And then for me, just sleep. 

— William James Haynes 

— 113 — 


Olive Rose Helton was bom January 14, 1925, at Orange 
Field, Texas, tne tmird of a family of five cniidren in tne 
home of Clyde and Clara Helton. She came with her par- 
ents to Joplin in 1930. She is a student in East Joplin 
high school and a' member of the mixed chorus in her 
sophomore and junior years. She started writing poetry at 
the age of thirteen; has had poems published in the Re- 
lief Magazine, and Joplin Leader and her work was fea- 
tured in a display of outstanding school children by the 
schools of Joplin. Her ambitions are to be a singer and 
to continue her writing. 


The evening sun was setting, 

Far m the glorious west. 

The little birds were settling down, 

For their nightly rest. 

When suddenly large raindrops, 

Began to pitteir-pat. 

They fell against my window. 

With a loud splatt-splatt. 

As suddenly as it began. 

It quickly ceased, and then. 

Began to pitter-pat-pat-pat, 

And then it stopped again. 

A rainbow blossomed overhead. 

As from a magic wand. 

Of red, and green, and lavender. 

And pink not far beyond. 


Bright sparkling diamonds. 

Falling everywhere; 

Clinging to the treetops, 

And dancing in the air. 

— 114 — 


May all the merry churchbelis ring*. 

To mark the coming of our king ! 
That he might reign. 

And ascertain; 

‘Tis of he the angels sing! 

Oh, what a glorious sight! 

The shepherds saw that night! 
The angels bright. 

In ropes of white; 

, Sang of Jesus with delight! 

Oh, may the whole world sing! 

May all the people sing ! 

With resounding joy. 

Of that baby boy; 

Who was born to be our king! 


The countryside was glowing. 

In the bright October sun. 

And the golden leaves were dropping, 
From the tree limbs one by one. 

The bright flowers blossomed radiantly. 
While the cricket chirped with glee ; 

A:; the breezes rocked the grasses, 

Where he rested gay and free. 

Birds were singing, bees were humming, 
Lake Ozark’s waters azure shone. 

As if trying to tell the nation. 

The Ozarks country is God’s own! 

— Olive Rose Helton 


Chas. Hendricks, Lawyer, Probate Judge, Circuit 
Judge, Grand Master of Missouri I.O.O.F., Food Adminis- 
trator of World War I, and poet, gives much of the credit 
to his sainted mother and his good wife. (Sorry, no photo 
available this time.) 

They're scattered everywhere today, 

The boys of the old Home Town; 

And rich or poor, they’re old and gray, 

The boys of tne old Home Town; 

They’ve won their share of life’s acclaim, 

They’ve filled their nitch, they’ve won their fame ; 
They’ve missed their step and been to blame, 

The boys of the old Home Town. 

But right or wrong they’ll always be 
The boys of the old Home Town; 

The friendliest bunch on earth to me, 

The boys of the old Home Town. 

Oh ! Could we all but meet once more, 

Around the stove in the old grocery store. 

And spend the evening like the days of yore, 

The boys of the old Home Town. 

Ah! Many would fail to answer roll call, 

The boys of the old Home Town; 

For they paid the debt, payable by all, 

The boys of the old Home Town. 

But could the rest all meet in the old grocery store, 

And laugh and joke and visit as before. 

And relate how we failed to knock at opportunity’s door, 
The boys of the old Home Town. 

But we’re scattered today to the four winds of earth 
The boys of the old Home Town; 

And we could scarcely hope to meet again, 

The boys of the old Home Town. 

But when the last trumpet wakes the earth and sea, 

And the tombs of the earth set their prisoners free, 
We all again united will be, 

The boys of the old Home Town. 

— C. A. Hendricks. 

• 116 — 


Was born July 29, 1895, in Englevale, Kansas, to Mr. 
and Mrs. C. E. Richardson. At an early age her parents 
moved to Pierce City, Mo., where she attended both grade 
and High School. Nothing of interest happened much other 
than usual small town happenings. Attended Park College 
at Parkville, Mo., and the Springfield State Normal at 
Springfield, Mo. The next seven years were spent in teach- 
ing the little tots. During that time she married Wm. Hun- 
ter of Sandusky, Ohio, and settled in Webb City, where she 
lived until 1943. 

She was always one who liked to spend much time 
alone, thinking and writing or studying. She has written 
several, poems. Many of which have been published in 
small town papers. 

She now lives in their beautiful home at Carter- 
ville, Mo. 


I’ve built the prettiest castles. 

Away up high. 

Out of the big white fleecy clouds 
That floated in the sky. 

I’ve dreamed the sweetest dreams, 

Of contentment and. rest. ' 

But they, just like my castles, 

' Vanished into nothingness. 

— Zida M. Hunter. 

Lucy W. House was 
born in Morgan County, 
Mo., daughter of a Baptist 
minister, Rev. and Mrs. B. 
D. Stone. 

Mrs. House’s work has 
appeared in the Kansas 
City Star, Kansas City 
Journal, The Note Book, 
The Garrett, Arcadian 
Life, Modern Bards, Cass 
County Democrat, Kansas 
City Poetry Magazine, and 
many others. 

Mrs. House has been 
writing poetry for many 
years and sometimes the 
thoughts come tumbling 
in rhyme, so fast she can- 
not write them all down. 
She is a member of the Kansas City Athenaeum, Kan- 
sas, City Quill Club, Modern Bards, and Arcadian Guild. 


Published in The Word & Way, Baptist Newspaper, 

If I please God, what matter what I meet, 
ilf I regard each task assigned to me, 

With gratitude for faith above defeat — 

My heart the chalice of my destiny, 

With ample room for gifts of perfect mold 
'■ All mine ... a child of earth, but heir to heaven - 
My heritage the truth the years unfold. 

When mystifying doubts are all transformed, 

And variant hates have found their leaven, 0 ' 

By quickened life to truth and love conformed 
Where wasted years, regrets and earth bound feet 
Have faded on the gleaming upward trail, 

— 118 — 

If I please God, what matter what I meet. 

If joyously I search and find life’s Grail, 

Wnere siars ince sentinels assure my feet. 

In my thought 1 dedicated this poem to my father who 
was a Baptist minister and was very happy when Word and 
Way puoiished it in the 1943 Christmas number. 

From The Garrett, 1309 Payne Ave., Cleveland, Ohi . 


Oh, I would keep the Autumn gold. 
Unchanged forever, if I might, 

And under harvest moon made bold, 

Would salvage silver every night, 

To make gay coverlets for cold. 

And starry chalets, chined and bright, 
Where dreams love never cold withhold, 
Would touch the rhythmic keys of light. 

Oh, I would keep the Autumn gold, 

To hear each choral sunrise speak, 

Of risen joy high trails unfold, , 

And with my dreams unspent would seek, 

The shreds of wealth that autumn brings, 
Sublime, from earth’s abundant way. 

Like pilfered down for dear wild things, 

To nestle in at close of day. 

Holly and Mistletoe — Compiled by Flozari 


You perch on my shoulder, 

Up close to my ear. 

And whisper a message, 

I avidly hear; 

If I appear doubtful, 

Your bright twinkling eyes. 

Emit scintillations, 

That reach to the skies. 

— Lucy W. Houea. 

— 119 — 

“Walking Preacher of the 

This glamorous iegio .1 
boasts a number of unique 
personalities, but none that 
has attracted wider local than this quaint, 
self-effacing gospel preach- 
er, who makes most of his 
ministerial appo'niments 
on '“Shank’s mare.” Buoy- 
ant with energy, youthful 
Zest and abundant health, 
he swings over the hills 
and dales of the Ozarks, 
preaching hundred® of ser- 
mons annually, and walk- 
ing literally thousands of miles every year — making mam' 
remote rural churches, schcolhouses and rustic hemes 
that would be inaccessible by auto or wagon. 

Unlike the typical mountain person, Mr. Howard 
speaks with a rich, faultless diction; collegiates tav.» 
marvelled at the redundacy of his speech, his rare vo- 
cabulary and his resonant, orotund voice. While h° tells 
a rustic story admirably, having for years made a studv 
of the quaint dialect of the hill folk, them na+ive humor 
and charm, he is at his best in his colorful descriptive 
Bible passages, his fine phrases, imagery and word- 
painting, that are like a perfect cameo, or a piece of 
finely-carved Phydian marble. 

Since coming into the Ozarks from Iowa in 1983 he 
has travekd 40,000 miles, preachpd 1500 Hermans, and 
written millions of words of descriptive articles, stories 
and bits of philosophy. 

At present his home is at Schell City, Missouri. 

— 120 - 


You ask: "If winter comes, wdl spring 
be far away?” 

Yes, dawn musp follow night, and soon 
the brilliant day 

Must burst, full armoied after wax’s, 
dark night; 

After tiie bleeding blackness we shall, 
feel the light. / 

The warm sunrise of peace; the robm 
choirs will sing; 

The litanies of love, rose-k-ssed, will 
come with spring; 

The glad plowboy will whistle as he- 
roams the hilis, / 

And bloom-ciieeitcd girls will Weave their 
wreathes of daffouils. 

All hate must die; joybsi.s must rmg; the 
golden fields of corn 

Proclaim God’s promised thousand years 
... “A Child is Lorn!” 

— Rev. Guy Howard. 

(Courtesy of Christian Standard) \ 


Beulah M. Huey was 
born, and has lived most of 
her life so far in Missouri, 
Her first poems were writ- 
ten about the beauty of 
its hills and valleys, and 
she is still writing about 
them. They are an inex- 
haustible inspiration. 

Publications which have 
accepted her poetry are: 
Northwestern Miller, St. 
Joseph News-Press, The 
Country Gentleman, U. S. 
Air Servic: s, The Denver 
Post, The Oregonian, Bet- 
ter Home, The Indianapo- 
lis News, Los Angeles Ex- 
aminer, Chicago Tribune, 
Kansas City Poetry Magazine, many Sunday School puo- 
lications, poetry magazines and Anthologies. In August, 
Vivian Yeiser Laramore, Poet-Laureate of Florida, fea- 
tured Mrs. Huey in her column of verse, Miami Muse, in 
the Sunday edition of The Miami News, as a visiting poet. 

She is now living at Chula, Missouri, and is a mem- 
ber of the Chillicothe Scribblers’ Club, and The Missouri 
Writers’ Guild. 


Give the homesick son of mine, Diear God, 

On foreign battlefront, one hour of Christmas peace 
At Christmas time; some odd. 

Imaginative moments where the tropics cease 
And moonlight paints a cliff of snow 
In shining white where these bare sand dunes rise; 
Hang on jungle palm a moment’s mirage of cedar 
and mistletoe, 

And a candle of faith for his home-loving eyes. 
— 122 — 


In the magic of moonlight, when the night is cool 
With lily-scented zephyrs borne from the pool, 
Dark loses its terror, lone vigils their dread 
The wet jungle grasses, the helpless dead — 

Only this moment seems worth release, 

Soul-deep in moonlight, skydeep in peace. 


When trees are russet, I shall stand, 

Upon a hill where sky and land 
Stretch limitless in golden sun. 

And cares will leave me, one by one. 

When trees are russet, I shall walk 
fin sepia forests, without talk, 

And hear the crispy, rustling way 
That oaks say what they have to say. 

The paths stretch out in frosty white. 

Where trailing mist foretells the night, 

But on the hill the sun in red 

Paints sky, and lake, and house, and shed, 

Into a loveliness that aches 
To word the feeling it awakes. 

When trees are ruset, on a hill 
I shall find cure, whose soul is ill. 

— Beulah M. Huey. 

— 123 — 

Clyde Stanley Hyde (S. K. Inny) 
born at Unionville, Missouri, July 25, 
1880. Son of Mr. and Mrs. Frederick 
Hyde. His family settled in North 
Missouri soon after the Civil War. 
Leaving Unionville in 1889 for Okla- 
homa, stopping at Topeka, Kansas, 
while mother went to Oklahoma, and 
filed on a claim. They moved to Okla- 
homa in March of 1890, living in, or 
near Guthrie since that time. 

He attended school one mile west 
of where town of Meridian now 
stands. One of his schoolmates later became Mrs. Hyde. 
'-Luty have three lovely daughters. 

Mr. Hyde has written approximately 500 poems and 
many short stories that have been widely published. A lot 
of these poems being 89’er type. Over 200 of his poems 
have been published in The Oklahoma News. He also has 
the original hand written copies of each. 

Mr. Hyde’s unique pen name of S. K. Inny was taken 
from his nickname of Skinny Hyde, he separated the name 
thus S. K. Inny. He and his family live in their beautiful 
country home near Guthrie, Oklahoma. 


The tide of time again has sped 
Outward and, taken all, 

Our deeds and every unkind word 
However great or small, 

To breach them on a distant isle. 

Far out beyond recall. 

No power within our universe 
Could cause to be undone, 

The things gone outward with the tide 
The good, the bad, or none 
Could cross the sea of time again 
And backward to us come. 

— 124 — 

The moments spent in idleness 
Are speeding- with tne tide 
And lost xor all eternity. 

They on tne yonder side, 

Wnere lay eternal sanas of time, 

Snail evermore aoiae. 


Father, Thou who hast guided those 
Across tne aeep ana urouDied sea, 

We olfer up our neartieit tnamts. 

This aay, upon our Denoted Knee, 

And all the time wmcn is to come. 

We bow in gratitude to Thee. 

They came from far across the Deep, 

To carve from out Tny Wilderness 

The homes, where they could live in peace. 
They ottered up their thankfulness 
To Thee for harvests bountiful 
in silent prayer, and numbieness. 

O Father, guide our Ship of State 
Safely upon this trouDied sea, 
as inou once did me Pilgrim Band. 

We’re thankful that we are free 

To live a life which is our own. 

And in our way, to worsnip Thee. 

Be near the Helmsman as He guides . 

Over the wave, and lay Thy hand 
Upon the wheel, if any winds 
Would drift us farther from our land. 

Watch over me, while on the Deep, 

As Thou hast done the Pilgrim Band. 

— S. K. Inny, Guthrie, Okla. 
(Clyde S. Hyde). 


Eunice Clement Hyatt, 
born September 28th at 
Yale Kansas. Parents 
names: John N. Clement 
and Leila M. Clement. 

Began writing poetry 
in 1939. First poem was 
published in the Daily Free 
Lance of Henryetta, Okla. 
Since then have been pub- 
lished in The American 
Courier, Reflections, Cass 
County Democrat, Fletch- 
er’s Farming, John Milton 
Smither’s column. Horizon 
House, Shining Light, The 
Quickening Seed, Poetry 
Palisade, Artcraft Pub- 
lishers, Avon House, and a number of other publications. 
In the last two years have fourteen prize winning poems 
to my credit, and have sold twenty to paying publishers. 

Both publishers and Ozarks poets, to me, are the salt 
of the earth. 

I used to write for mere pastime, but now I write 
because it helps me find the beautiful things there are 
in life. Poetry really makes life worthwhile. A poem 
is a blueprint of beauty. It is a living thought that has 
been purified by the refining fire on the altar of perfection. 

So long as I am given breath, may my soul and lips 
breathe poetry. 


My heart has wings 
When autumn softly steals, into the hills, 

And aptly flings 

Her gold upon the trees above the rills. 

Each towering pine 
Upon the summit nestles in the glow. 

— 126 — 

/Each trailing vine 

Will catch the nery stain the winds bestow. 

The tall oaks stand 

Like kings in~royai coats of flaming red. 

To tneir command 

The gaudy sumac bows its scarlet head. 

Though snows are near. 

And birds have gathered for their Southward flight. 
No thought of fear, 

Is borne upon the crisp October night. 

5Ey heart has wings 

When autumn’s gold reflects above the rills. 

And all earth sings 

Within the golden sheen of Ozark hills. 


Evening . . . 

Moonlight ... a small world slips by, 

Hours creep along on soft sandaled feet; 
Darkness falling like dew from the sky. 
Evening . . . the time for dreams . > 

Of gossamer things, a small child’s prayer. 
The haunting strain of an ancient tune, 
Angels and harps and a golden stair. 

Poetry, music, a blue lagoon, , 

Soft curls, a dimple, and laughing eyes, 

Float gently on through the silvery skies. 
Evening . . . the time for dreams . *. . 

Reviewing again the vanished years; 

When towering goals were but puny things, 
Reviewing again the joys . . . and tears. 
Evening ... . • 

, Moonlight ... a small world slips by ; 

Peace showers the earth from an open sky. 

— Eunice Clement Hyatt. 
(First published in Reflections Magazine) 

— 127 — 


Born October 15, 1880 ; 
at Logan, Iowa, son of 
S. and Mary S. Iden. In the 
dry summer of 1894 the 
family set sail in a prairie 
schooner for Northwest 
Arkansas. There it was his 
pleasure of knowing per- 
sonally the late Tom P. 

Morgan, humorist and 
short story writer. In 1900 
the Iden family moved to 
Monett, Missouri, and took 
over the Monett Leader'. 

He worked in newspaper 
shops, and as local corre- 
spondent for various city 
papers (Memphis, Atlanta, 

St. Louis, Kansas City, 

He was married in 1913 to Josie Marie Davis of West 
Plains, herself a capable printer. They took over the 
Pleasant Hill (Missouri) Register until the spring of 
1917, when they came to Crocker, Missouri, and bought the 
Crocker News. 

He began writing while yet a child. His poems have ap- 
peared in various metropolitan newspapers for a number of 
years, many appearing in the “Echoes of the Streets” col- 
umn in the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. In 1938 his work ap- 
peared in the anthology, “Poets on Parade,” compiled by 
Donna B. Brown, and '“Living Authors of the Ozarks,” 
compiled by Florence W. McCullough. In 1940 he publish- 
ed from his own a booklet, “My Own Poems,” containing 
some fifty poems, for distribution among friends. 

Other incidents include an honorary membership in 
the Eugene Field Society, the Christian Church, and Mayor 
of Crocker, Missouri. He is also a Past Master of Waynes- 
ville (Missouri) Lodge No. 375 A. F. & A. M. He still finds 
time to take pallette and brush to fix some view of lake 
or stream in oil, that trait being a heritage from his father, 

— 128 — 


Gray dusk and a tinkling bell, 
biar-gkams and a cbill wind's sigh, 

And rbe lowing herds from the iarther field, 

As they tread the path that is near concealed 
By the drywisps blown from the meadow's yield, 

Come home, and their sleek sides tell 
Of grass that was lush and high. 

Comes night, and a friendly glow 

Shines out on the silent hills 

As a neighbor turns from the daily grind, 

That has damped his brow and has wracked his mind, 
'To the things' cf love that his heart can find 
By lamps that are burning low 
In the niche his family fills. 

Ah, me! And I wonder why 

Folk yearn for the distant things 

When a home awaits, and a mate to cheer, 

With a smile, a word, or a happy tear 
On the face of one that is more than dear — 

Comes dusk, and my wife and I 
Find joy while the kettle sings. 

Echoes of the Streets” in St. Louis Globe-Democrat. 


I like to wander out of doors and watch September pass ; 
To see a fallen yellow leaf at rest upon the grass; 

I see the flame of goldemod a-light along the way, 
With scarlet sumac and the blue of chiekory today. 

September is a lovely time that calls me out to see 
The ripened summer’s gay parade match do'wn the days 
for me — 

A blessed, tender interlude — that wood doves muted cry 
White clouds afloat where shadows play while summer 
passes by. 

— Charles Iden. 

— 129 — 


Carl Barkley Ike was born in S.dney, 
Omo. Came to Missouri when very 
small and is a dyed-in-the-wool Ozark- 
ian. Known as the Hillbilly Poet, his 
beautiful, whimsically philosophical 
poetry has gone to far reaches of the 
Nation to sink deep into hearts of the 
people. Endowed with the gift of say- 
ing much in a few words an attainment 
that is reached by few and envied by 
poets, Ike is one of the higher lights 
of Ozarkian Bards. He has written hundreds of poems, has 
appeared in many anthologies both here and abroad and is 
one of the leading feature writers of Missouri. Prominent 
in lodge and church circles and noted for his benev- 
olences. Member of many literary groups, chief among 
them being th|e Missouri Winters’ Guild, Ozarks Press 
Association, Gasconade Writers’ Guild, and many others. 
He is also co-founder of the Ozarkian-Hillcrofters. He 
was the first poet laureate of the Ozarks. Has several 
published works, among them Memory's Encore and 
Memory's Autograph, the latter in collaboration with an- 
other Ozairkian writer, Hazel Dagley Heavin of Rolla. Is 
a member of the Missouri Historical Society. He is a 
member of “Bookfellows.” Has been featured over many 
radio stations of the middle-west. 


I'd like to see you coming 
To me in glad surprise 
Across some moonlit garden 
With laughter in your eye3. 

I‘d like the moonbeam fairies 
To dance away in glee 
And leave you in that garden . . 
Quite all alone with me. 

— 130 — 


Twice have I remembered 
Things I should forget 
Once when first you kissed me . . . 
Or.ce when first we met. 


Only the wise folks store away. 

Money, they gay, for a rainy day; 

But I have lots of ycur memories, dear— ■ 
I’ve put them away till the clouds appear. 


Many things I might have done 
As life's race was being run, 

Were it not because of one . . .' Mother. ' 

Many times, would I have failed 
When the storms and fears assailed, 

Had I not one leader hailed . . . Mother. 

Many blessings rich and fine f 
Following on duty's line. 

Do I owe this friend of mine’. . . Mother, f 

—Carl B. 3ke. 


A daughter of Reuben H. 
and Martha A. Brown, was 
born in Lebanon, Missouii, 
April 22, 1866. Finished Leb- 
anon High School, and also 
attended the Laclede Semin- 

She taught rural school 
in Laclede, Miller and Jaspoi 
Counties, Missouri. 

She was married in Car- 
thage, Mo., to Thomas L. 
Jackson, a farmer. 

Mrs. Jackson writes poems and songs- and has re- 
ceived honorable mentions for state song contest. 


There are hands soft and tender, 

There are hands smooth and fair ; 

Other hands to us may render, 

Faithful service, love and care; 

But the hands we hold so dear. 

Liv’d their life of love and fear ; 

The wrinkled old hands of mother. 

Wrinkled old hands, wrinkled old hands. 

Hands whose touch were like no other, 

They cairress’d us day and night, 

How we lov’d their very sight. 

The wrinkled old hands of mother. 

They were hands- warm and loving, 

They were hands so rough and old ; 

But yet to us still proving, ^ 

Honest value, firm as gold; f 
These dear hands we know so well. 

Fill the world with deeds that tell-’ 

The wrinkled, old hands of mother. 

(Published in Paris, Mo., -IMercury) 

— 132 — 


Marshall T. Jamison of Springfield, Mo., poet-writer 
and president of tfie Ozarkian Hillcrofters Guild. (Sorry, 
a more detailed autobiography before going to press) . 


Now, said my Angel, I leave you; 

Ho, whispered the Devil, I come; 

And I stood discouraged, 

Park clouds had covered my sun. 

Through life I have always found it. 

No matter, where ever you. go, 

Two forces are always working, 

One from above and one from below. 

In life we are ever moving 
Either forward or backward we go; 

My Angel is urging me foreward 
But the Devil is awake down below. 

So let us not drift with the current 
But pull with one Angel upstream 
For if we stop, then the eddy 
Drags us back, and shatters our dreams. 

— Marshall T. Jamison. 


It was a poet, who after walking 
through a country cemetery, sum- 
mariz d human life as born, married, 
died. Mary Twitchel Jones, the sub- 
ject of this sketch, met the first of 
ohesj engagements at a time in the 
past, the second somewhat later, and 
has the third yet to meet. 

She is a native Missourian, with 
one line of descent from the early 
Puritan Colonels, the other from 
tide-water Virginia and from Ken- 
tucky, and has lived in the Ozark 
vicinity most of her life. Mrs. 
Jones was selected as chairman of the Missouri State 
Division of the National Thanksgiving Poetry Contest 

Has long been an active member of the Tri-State Writ- 
ers Club, of Joplin, where she resides. 


This day marks the time of Thanksgiving set forth by that 
hero of ( old — 

Give thanks to the Lord for His mercies, bestowed upon 
us manifold! 

Observe it, America blessed, let acclaim ring from seashore 
to crag; 

Acknowledge with worship the blessing conferred in our 
star-spangled flag. 

This flag makes our safe sanctuary, the sure guarantee of 
each right, 

First flown in defense from a tyrant, in sacrifice, hardship 
and fight; 

It now is the pledge and the ensign, the hope of all men, 
near and far — 

Hats off, 0 American people, to Liberty's own guiding star! 
With reverent heart, 0 Columbia, lift your glad voice unto 

— 134 — 

For this sign and seal to all nations, of path that our fore- 
fathers trod; 

For never, of peoples of record, had other such nation as 

With government grounded on justice, and citizens grant- 
ing its powers. 

America, God will not fail you ; your children are steadfast 
and true, 

The flag of our freedom waves ever, the glorious red, white 
and blue — 

The red of the blood of our heroes, the blue of their loyal- 
ty’s ranks, 

The white of devotion — 0 People, salute our fair flag, and 
give thanks! 

— “First Award for Missouri in National Thanksgiving 
Association Poetry Contest. 


When I wake up in de mawnin’ I goes lis’nin’ at my do; 
Foh I thinks I heahs some music dat I done is hyee’d befo’ ; 
Sol open de do’ a shavin’, an’ I lissin’ at de crack; 

Den I spies a little rascal in a coat o’ ishiny black — 

Hi, deire ! Howdy Mister Cricket. Yo’ is jes’ as black as me, 
So den taint nah’y wonder you is happy as can be 
Den dat shiny little rascal he go trumpin’ out a jig, 

An’ he hoe down on hes fiddle, an’ he think he mighty big! 
Den he hump hes back an’ hustle wid “De Tu’key in de 
Straw” — 

Little mite make monst’ous bustle dat yo’ ha’dly eveh saw! 
Hey den, shuckin’s! Misteh Cricket you all think yo’ 
mighty big, 

A fiddlin’ an’ a Trompin’ on yo’ happy hoe-down jig. 

An dat little shiny cricket, jes’ as happy as can be — 
When he wake me de mawnin’, he is cumpunny fo’me; 
Fo’ he keep de tune a ringin’, an’ he foot go clatter-clack, 
Til de fus’ thing I’s a singin’ an’ a anserin’ him back. 
Keep a humpin’, Misteh Cricket, til I gets it pu’htysoon, 
Den I brings my own ol’ fiddle, and I he’ps yo’ wid de tune. 
(By Courtsey of The Country Bard). 

— Mary Twitchel Jones. 
— 135 — 


Stella V. Smith, daughter of Charles J. and Dora L. 
Smitn, was born on a farm in Gentry County, Missouri, on 
July 2,0. On S ptember 14, 1919, in the same home where 
she waj born, was quietly married to an old schoolmate, 
Marvell P. Jones. After spending two years in Idaho ana 
a few months in Kansas, they returned to the homelana. 
Two sons were born. 

Mrs. Jones has composed more than 2000 poems, iver 
half of which have been published. She was President of 
the Community Friendship Club at Parnell, Missouri. Was 
secretary and treasurer of a National Poet Club for three 
years, and editor of "The Post's Friend,” a 64-page poetry 
publication, far eight years, 1930-38 inclusive. Her poems 
ha vi been read over the air. Her work has been published 
in newspapers, poetry, publications and many anthologies 
of verse. Two literary publications have devoted an en- 
tire issue to her work, one in Massachusetts and the other 
in New York City in 1934-36. The “Stella Vee Luncheon 
Club” of Chicago was founded in her honor in 1936. Her 
first book of poems, “Broken Wings,” was published in 
Iowa in February, 1935, copies of which may be found in 
many public libraries. She is co-author, to “Romance in 
Platinum” published in California in December, 1937. 
And editor of an anthology, “The Dipper at the ' Well” 
compiled also in 1937. • " " ' 1 

Stella V. Jones, one of the most loved and respected 
personalities*, is a nationally known poet, long, associate^ 
with the little magazine movement. A Woman who has 
found beauty and hope and faith in life and tvants to share 
with the whole world. She possesses also the sympathetic 
understanding of human nature and the clear-eyed courage, 
of a great philosopher. She possesses a natural gift of 
rhythm. - 


A Irve two friends, and one of them 
\ Just bubbles with delight 
’.And fills my soul with joy and song 
When skies are clear and bright, 

— 136 — 

I love to laugh and talk and help 
To sip the cherry wine, 

Yith this dear one, whe n I am. gay 
A^d all is sweet and fine. 

The other friend is much the same 

When every thing goes well, : 

But when death leaves a broken heart 
And failure has her spell. 

Then I prefer this 1 other one 

Whom hardships do not wane. 

But brings a silken -parasol 
To meet me in the rain. 


A, spring ago „ . in hand-laid rpws 
No other garden could compare. 

Were Indian carpets of gay flowers 
That mother planted there. 

And when the wrinkled hands that set 
The zennias in the row 

Pulled plants for me . . . She said, someday 
Your heart' like mine, shall know 

How old-time flowers have power to mend' 
Even a costly break 

In hearts that" suffer long and well 
Yet none suspicion, ache. 

How can I then ... a few months hence 
Walk in my own back yard 

All seeded down with old-time flowers 
And cry, Life is too hard? 

God teach . . . and help.‘the’ zennias heal 
A broken heart in me . . . 

For When I greet my country home - 
No mother welcomes me ! 

— Stella V. Jone 

— 137 — 


Jones, John Lacy. (1912). A 
Missouri writer, poet and educator 
known for his sincerity of charact- 
er and his love for children with 
whom he has worked for several 
years. His native home among the 
mystic beauties of the Ozarks has 
v ad a noted influence upon his life. 

He is a lover of music, art and 

Jones was born near Yancy 
Mills, iii Phelps County, Missouri, 
a descendant of a long line of hardy 
pioneers, who helped to blaze the way into this region of 
historic fame. His boyhood was a happy one filled with 
the joy of strange adventures among his native hills; 
of it little more could be said than that expressed by the 
poet himself, in the following lines taken from his poem. 


If I, before life’s bell shall toll. 

May chance to light some darkened soul, 
. Or ease a pain or reap a smile, 

My passing here has been worth while. 

Or if some kindly deed I do. 

For gratitude and mercy too, 

Should help to make a burden light, 

I surely passed not in the night. 

[Qr if, upon the road of time, 

I learn to love the things Sublime, 

T’hat rise from out the common sod, 

I needs must love Immortal God. 

Then if these be my destiny 
Before the bell has tolled for me, 
Somewhere there needs must be a place 
To meet the dear God face to face. 


0 gallant youth where have your fancies led 
Upon whose mystic shore thy beauties fled? 

Could all thy glory, all thy joy be gone? 

Does time so thoughtless dare to haste thee on ? 

But even as I ask, an aching sigh 

•■Seems now to whisper, youth has passed you by, 

^Forever drifting on time’s aging shore, 

Gay youth is but a mem’ry evermore. 


0 Life! 0 Time! wherefore the pain and mortal strife, 
The source of war, the grief, the ghasty woe? 

Does not each mortal know it’s curse and lasting hate, 
With all it’s horror, all it’s death and deep sorrow? 

From out his bourne of time has man not chanced to 

That stately peace and love should guide the nations on, 
Toward their destiny with faith in fellow kind, 

As great high minded men who dare leave war alone? 

The dearest lesson life and time has taught so oft 
Is borne away as tiny seeds before the gale 
No profit has been gained from long experience. 

So war returns and peace shall ever fail. 

O Time ! O Life ! with all thy various ways and moods, 
Thy destiny is strange and yet so much unlearned. 

Upon thy mystic shore weak mortals often err, 

While life and time must pay for sorrows it has earned. 

— John Lacy Jones. 


Was born in Dallas 
County, Iowa, of pioneer 
parents, Candace and El- 
wood Smith. They moved 
in a covered wagon drawn 
by four white oxen to a 
beautiful homestead in 
Western Kansas, where 
they had the experience of 
living in a dugout, and 
other hardships of the 
early pioneers. 

In 1885 they came to the Arkansas Ozarks. She 
was married in 1906 to W. M. Judy (now deceased), 
Mrs. Judy began making rhymes when about nine, 
she writes songs, poems and articles, which have appear- 
:d in the Church Herald and the Kansas City Star. 

Her home is in Alba, Missouri, 


Lilies blue and white and red. 

Blooming in the garden bed, 

Nodding in the sun. 

God above so good and, true, , 

Makes them grow and bloom for you. 

Tends them every one. 

Dainty dresses lilies wear, 

Cut and sewn and bound with care, 

Pure fi'om soil or stain. 

God has made the lilies clothes, 

Ironed them with the wind that blows. 

Washed them with the rain.' 

God who cloibes thgilies so, 

Makes +h e children . and grow, 

Knows thehi^^bv name. 

CiVps them food and etBthes t 0 wear. 

Wants thorn r^jt^S^^es fair, 

Free from sin 'or blame. 

— 140 — 


When Satan’s hosts our souls assail* 
And all our strong defences fail, 
God hears and rescue swiftly brings. 
And bears us up on eagle’s wings. 


On wings, on wings, on eagle’s wings 
Above all base and .sinful things] 

On wings, on wings, on eagle’s wings. 

Up, up, still up to higher things. 

In Egypt’s land they toiled in grief 
Till God in mercy gave relief. 

He laid His hand on Egypt’s Kings 
And brought them forth on eagle’s wings. 

His chariots are the clouds on high 
Upon the winds He walketh by, 

He shakes the earth and rocks the skies 
And on the cherib’s wings He flies. 

'When nations rise and nations fall 
And dire disaster threatens all 
And each day new distraction brings* 

Our souls escape on eagle’s wings. 

Sibylla T. Judy 



Miss Cleo Marie Konow, member of Scribblers Club and 
has been writing since childhood. Her work has appeared 
in many magazines, anthologies, poetry columns and in 
radio programs. She also writes stories and articles and 
much of her work has a ready market. Her home is in 
Chillicothe, Missouri. 


You wished for trails that led beyond 
The simple song of birds; j 
We walked those trails together, 

Planned journeys sweet with words. 

But now you have the road beyond 
The vast expanse of sea, 

While I walk love’s pathway praying } 

For your safe return to me L 

(Published in March issue of “The What-Not,” Rolla, Mo.) 

(To a Soldier-lover) 

j Will each Memorial day thru endless time, 

/Betray my heart with some reminding sound 
\Of laughter or of song? We held sublime 
[The treasure of a new-found love that bound 
,/Us close. We vowed that death could never part, 

' We’d span the miles to reach across life’s tides, 

And sense the nearness of our spirit-heart, 

And feel the love that after death abides. 

Today I hold communion at your grave, 

I travel quiet trails unmarked thru space, 

I feel the clasp of hands reached out to save, 

0, soldier-lad peace shines on your calm face. 

A flag and blossoms are symbols on this sod, 

But you have life — you who now live with God. 

(Prize winner poem in May 30, 1942, issue of “The Denver 
Post,” and also printed in Horizon House antholoa-v New 
York City, in “The Muse of ’42,” 1942. 

— Cleo Marie Konow. 

- 142 — 


Was bora on October la, lazO, at Sc. James, Missouri. 
The fourtn cnuu, and omy aaugnter of Wm. and Mary 
Dawson. Wnen l was two years old my mother died and 
I, with my three brothers, was taxen by my paternal 
grandparents to their farm in Illinois. 

I attended Keif High School, ior three years, and fin- 
ished at C'entralia High School in 1938. The following 
December, I married Kenneth Laughlin of Salem, Mo. 
Mother of two sons. 

My husband secured employment at Fort Leonard 
Wood, so we moved to Dixon, Mo., where we now live. 

I have written poetry since I was in grade school, but 
have never tried to have any published. 

(Somewhere in No. Africa) 

We know not where you are tonight, 

They’ve sent you overseas. 

To fight against the mad, mad foe, 

And Keep your country free. 

You’re in a land that’s strange to you, 

With a million other men. 

May God guard and protect you all, 

So you’ll come home again. 


When the deep night descends from the heavens above, 
When the birds and the flowers are at rest, 

All there is to be heard is the silvery brook, 

That’s the time that I love much the best. 

When everything else is sleeping in peace, 

And the night takes the peace of the day, 

Then I walk in the dark by the waterfall, 

It’s a beautiful time to pray. 

— Juanita Dawson Laughlin. 

— 143 - 


Virginia V. Lowe, born in 
Platt County, Illinois, came 
to Pierce City, Missouri, 
with her parents at tne age 
of eleven. Her father, Jonn 
Van Buren, served three 
years in the 1 Union Army 
as a volunteer from Illinois. 
Her mother, Julia Morton 
Van Buren, was a pioneer 
school teacher in Dent Coun- 
ty, Missouri, in the seventies. 
Mrs. Lowe did not enter 
school until she was nine 
years old because she was too 
timid to go alone. However, 
her early education did not 
suffer because her mother 
taught her until she entered 
the third grade. 

She was married to A. J. Lowe. in 1925. After four 
years on the farm Mr. Lowe was stricken with an illness 
that resulted in his death three years later. Mrs. Lowe 
and her sister, Mrs. Lola Duncan, are now living in the 
old home place at Pierce City. 


Peace on Earth, good will toward men, 

Why sing it o’er and o’er again? 

’Twould seem it were an idle phrase, 

Brought down to us from ancient days, 

To chant again, from year to year 
When Christmas time is drawing near. 

Oh, Peace on Earth ; God haste the day 
When greed and strife shall pass away; 

Good will toward men, when battles cease, 

And man will serve the Prince of Peace; 

The Prince of Peace, our Lord and King, 

What joy on Earth His words will bring 
Vvixcii man can truly sing the strain, 
l rca^ on Earth, good will toward men.” 
V Fronted m Springfield News-Leader). 


inis ain't no time for writing 
Wren sucn oeauty ail around; 

Fct rather oe a pickin' nuts, 

And ’simmons off the ground. 

There ain’t no time for writin’, 

While you watch the wild fly. 

And the blackbirds hold a caucus, 

In a giant oak near by. 

No, this ain’t no time for writin’ — 

Let me watch the shadows grow. 

Let me gaze upon the woodland, 

In the autumn’s sunset glow. 

But what’s the use o’ writin'. 

When no words can half portray, 

The beauty of our Ozarks 
On a bright October day. 

— Virginia Van Buren Lowe. 


A poet - humorist dra- 
matic artist, world travel- 
er, chalk talker, feature 
writer and Chautauqua and 
stage entertainer, was 
born in North Carolina, of 
exceedingly humble par- 
entage, in a one-room 
shack. As the second son 
of William D. and Hannah 
(Moore) Lucy he emigra- 
ted to Arkansas with the 
family. His father was a 
private in the Army of 
Northern Virginia, serving at one time as aide to Gener- 
al Robert E. Lee, receiving four wounds at Bull Run, 

His education was limited to the rural school. He 
entered the shop of the Russellville, Arkansas, Democrat 
at the age of fourteen as ’“Printer’s Devil.” After ma- 
turity he entered Parry School of Oratory and Dramatic 
Art, St. Louis, Missouri. 

He has made three world tours ; the first in 1909 the 
year of his marriage to Anna Mae Schumacher of Carmi, 
Illinois. Two subsequent tours were taken in 
1920 and 1922 to Australia, Asia, the Orient. Great Britain 
and Egypt. His travels are described in It's book, “Smiling 
’Round the Seven Seas.” Other volumes fn>m his pen 
are “Cinders and Sawdust,” “The Entertainer.” “Way- 
Station Musings,” “Through Prairie Meadows,” and 
“Sammy,” the latter a cheap brochure for news stand dis- 
tribution, of which near 100,000 were distributed. 

His travels over the world on r ' v ofessional engage- 
ments number more than a million miles, and bis record 
shows near eight thousand personal an-o Q He was 
a charter member of the International T veeum A ssocia 
tion and recently instructor of Dramatic Art in Minnesota" 
Bible University. 

— 146 — 


IPs sweet to turn the memory-leaves of life’r; old 

And chuckle at the silly silhouettes of yesterday, 

When everything seemed tragedy to your unformed 
little mind — 

Each curtain-call and tableau in your little music 

But, always came the afternshow, when daddy dried 
your tears, 

And told you he had felt the same way many 
times, like you; 

And when the morning dawned your mother raised 
the window shades V 

To let you see the monplg glori^&s. Jhe-suifll&trt': 
filtered through, 

I think, somehow, somewhere, sometime, when the bat- 
tle-thunders cease, • 

And the tumult and the shouting, of the captains 
are no more; - , ' .. .... 

When we hear the robins piping on the wrecks of 
riisting planes, ' 

And the Sunday morning hymns drown put the 
cuirsed cannons’ roar, — ’ 

That God’s children will awaken in a silver-misty 

" ''""monk"'" “ 

Forgetting all about the years when “rained the 
ghastly dew”, 

Just in time +o see the Master’open His ancient window- 

And whisner: “Come in, children,” as the sun- 
beams .filter, through, , .> 

,i — Thomas Elmore Lucy 


- 147 - 


Was born in New Brigh- 
ton, Pennsylvania. The 
daughter of Thomas Mar- 
shall and Mary Reeves. 
Was educated in Pitts- 
burg, Pa. 

Married after leaving 
school. Lived an unevent- 
ful life. A happy wife 
and mother. Have ex- 
plored the Ozark Moun- 
tains very thoroughly. 
Lived at Springfield, Mis- 
souri, seventeen years. It 
will always be home to me. 


Just build ine a house, on the side of a hill 
With Hollyhocks growing near 
I want to hear the murmuring stream 
And the call of the Whipperwill. 

A little white house, with shutters of green 
Amid great tall shade trees 
I am sure you would think it the prettiest house 
That you had ever seen. 

And the trees would cast their shade at eve; 

And the birds come flying home 
To their nest above in the leafy top 
What joy I would receive. 

I would like a fence painted white 
And a fountain on the lawn 
Whe^e I could sit and dream at night 
Perhans until the morning light. 

(Published in “The Poet’s Friend,” 1937 

In an attic of cobwebs, and dust one day 
I was looKing around in a curious way 
And rhere I spied my Grandma’s chair 
I don’t remember, who put it there. 

It must of been a long time ago 

ur, uid I just seem to tnink it so 
But as the tears came into my eyes 

It seemed so long since I said Good-Bye. 

So I brought it down with loving care ' 

And gave it a place that I could spare 
And as I see it from day to day 

It's Grandma’s chair, you hear me say. 

Now it’s free today of cobwebs and dust 
And all for the Love of her I trust 
Someone will love it as much as I 

In the long, long years that will pass by. 


Don’t you r. member the old summer car? 

It tojk you to town, and also afar 
In fancy I know there is nothing to beat 
An evening ride on the old front seat. 

Many parks and picnics it took us to 

But we’d have to leave, when the car was due. 
The motorman would merrily kick the gong; 

With the greatest of glee as he passed along: 

In a suit of blue, with buttons of brass. 

On the running boa-"d + h° Conductor would pass 
And collect a nickle and also a smile 

From pretty girl?, from to mile. . 

Many years have nassed a wav ' 

>nd the Old Summer Car is now passe 
In fancv I s + ill ride the front «e a t 

Of the Old Summer Car, It '•an’t be Heat. 

— Alice M. Lytle 



Leona Lloyd, Poet, Writer and Publisher, has many 
poems and otner wirtings to her credit, and‘ is now 
working on a manuscript based on life in Southeast Mis- 
souri She was editor and publisher of the magazine of 
poetry, “The Outburst.” 

Her home is in St. Louis, Mo., where she operates 
a book store. 

The following have featured her work: 

Visions — Note Book — Country Bard — Arcadian 
Life — Skylines — Missouri School Journal — Faucets — 
Beacon Publishing Co. — Christmas Lyrics — Candor Avon 
— • Beatrice Publications — Ridgewood Herald — St. Louis 
Star — Hartford Times — Scimetar and Song. 

Life begins in the springtime 
Tender, fresh and pure, 

Opens its eyes in wonder 
To a world of vast allure. 

Bursting forth in the Summer 
In glorious, glad array; 

Blossoming full of spirit; 

Life is a gala hey dey. 

Pfoud to the point of boasting, 

No burden, or spirit dismayed, 

Rushing and crowding each moment ; 

Presenting a pageant well played, 

Maturity comes with the Autumn, 

The grain in the golden field 
Droops and sways with the zephyr 
Burdened with heavy yield. 

The master reaper then cometh 
, As a stealthy thief in the night, 

To harvest with scythe and sickle ; 

Working with main and might. 

A shadowy respite is Winter, 

Of lives short lived, yet old; 

Left mellowing now in the gamer ; 

Completing the story oft told. 

(Used in Cadence of 1940) 



This poem by Mrs. Bonita Mann, wife of Dr. C. V. 
Mann of Rolla, Mo. Member Gasconade Writers Guild 
(Sorry no biographical sketch available on going to press.) 


Sometimes my day is gloomy and drear. 

My heart bowed with sadness, wanting cheer, 
Quickly my troubles all take flight. 

The shadows flee, out comes the light. 

And everything seems right — 

When the cardinal sings in our cherry tree. 

His flaming feathers, his gaudy coat 
Fill my eyes with beauty, 

Lifts my soul with each note; 

How could I murmur or complain, 

Forget the sunshine because of irain, 

When the cardinal sings in our cherry tree? 

— Bonita H. Mann. 


Born June . 3, 1884, at 

Frankfort, Kansas. Mar- 
ried Miss Bonita A. Hunt 
in 1906. Has five cbn- 
dren. Received education in 
Public Scnoois, Reserville, 
Kansas ; Prep School, Bou.- 
der, Colo., Univers.ty Col- 
orado, University Iowa. 
Began' Work in Civil En- 
gineering in 1903. 'laughi; 
School- of Mines since 
1920. , Many published 
works; two books “Ob- 
jective Type Tests in En- 
gineering Education” and 
“History of .School of 
Mines” being outsanding 
works. Member Tau Beta 
Pi, Pni Delia 'Kappa, i neta Tau, Gasconade Writers’ 
Guild, Community Music Club of Rolla, Missouri Academy 
of Science, American Association Univ. Prof., and other 
professional societies. Recognized in Who’s Who in 
American Education, American Men of Science, Leaders 
in Education, current issues. Space does net do justice to 
his biography in this book. 


0 Phelps County I. sing love fojr thee: 

For thy roljfng hill and valldikso fair. 
Land,wheire%f e blossoms fuijpnrch, and free, 
Clinde iwhere freedom so blest fills the air. 

Th^verdanf fields stir -deep heart thrills — 

In thy Ozark woodlands wide I love to roam, 
’Mid thy cool sparkling rivers, springs and rills 
Neath the azure skies— yes, this is my home. 
—Copyright, 1941, by Clair V. Mann. 



Glist’ning snow flakes, twinkling, sparkling, 
Soft upon the hilltops lie. Oh, 

Moonlight shimm’ring, starlight glimm’ring, 
Herald happy Christmas days. 


Heigho ! Heigho ! Heigho ! 

Ring out o’er field and snow! 

Happy Christmas bells, and joyous laughter, 
Happy Christmas days are here. 

When sleigh bells begin to jingle, 
Christmas days are on the way. Oh, 
When, sweet bells with carols mingle, 

.Dear old Santa’s on the way. 

Chorus - » '■ 

Yo Ho! YoHo! gR'Bgfe 
A-sleighing we will 
Through the flying fflmr -Sew fast- -we 
Whiter singing carols all the w$y, . . 

Once o’er peaceful Beth’lem’s hilfs" .V' ' 
A star, so lovely;', rose bn hig'h. ’ , , 

While shepherds heard sweet voices singing, 
/Teace on Earth, good Will to men,” 

• ; Chorus ‘ 

;And Lo! And Lo !, j-vL’And Lol 
With wonder>they :did)go. ... hv; >:. 

$o the, tiny Stranger, -in the manger,--' 

All on a happy Christmas day.' > v • 

—Clair V. Mann. 

well as love and human i: 


She was born in 
Bologna, Italy. She came 
to the United States 
with her parents during 
the Spanish- - American 

In the years Mrs. Mari- 
noni has been writing she 
has had published poetry, 
articles and short stories 
for syndicates and maga- 
zines. She also has to her 
credit five books of poems 
and two books of epigrams 
“In Passing” and “Pine 

Mrs, Marinoni has writ- 
ten a multitude of juvenile 
stories,' Detective, Adven- 
ture, and Ghost Stories, as 
st stories. Her work found 

a ready place n such publications as the old Literary Di- 
gest, New York Tribune, Scribners, Pictorial Review, 
Good Housekeeping, Holland, New York Times, Chicago 
Tribune and others. Her work has been recognized by out- 
standing critics as Heywood Brown, Wm. Stanley Braith" 
waite and Ralph _Chey. Mrs. Marinoni is poet laureate of 
Arkansas Federation and a member of Tri-Delta 
Sorority. Married to Antonio Marinoni, they have two 
children and live at Fayetteville, Ark, 


It happened in Milan one summer night. 

While we were driving down a narrow street. 
A fender crushed — the brakes froze to a stop 
Beneath the pressure of the driver’s feet. 

I hurled my ire against the guilty one: 

“You should be taught to signal as you turn! 

• 154 — 

At least put out your arm!” I cried at him ; 

"You could have caused our car to overturn!” 

At hirst toe man was silent, then he spoke: 
“Sorry,” he said, “To cause you such alarm. 

You did not see it, for the night is dark, 

But as I turned, I did put out my arm. ■ 

Please take my license number and my name — 

I hope you will forgive and understand. 

I was a soldier once, somewhere in France .... 

My left arm 's a stub. I have no hand.” 

I could not speak. The words choked in my throat- 
I did not take his number, nor his name — 

I turned the car against the dull dark night. 

My face averted to conceal my shame. 

Reprinted by permission of Author — 

— Rosa Zagnona Mar'noni. 


Mary Elizabeth Mahn- 
key was born to Mr. and 
Mrs. A. S. Prather at Har- 
rison, Arkansas. Her par- 
ents came from Indiana to 
Arkansas, about 1869. Her 
father, a Union soldier, was 
given a federal appoint- 

Mrs. Mahnkey began to 
write local news for the 
Forsyth paper when she 
was 14 years old. 

For 17 years I have 
written regularly every 
week, besides for our 
county paper, a little col- 
umn for the Springfield 
Daily News, the editors headed it — In the Hills. I have 
many lovely letters from so many different people who 
read this. 

Last November, after trying for so many years, I won 
first place in the Poet Laureate of the Ozairks con- 
test sponsored by Springfield KWTO and KGBX and was 
given a trophy that pleased me very much. Perhaps be- 
cause it was recognition from home. The prize winning 
poem was “W"'ld Honey.” 

Was chosen best country correspondent in the na" 
tion by Crowells in 1985. 

Mrs. Mahnkey has one book of poems published, “Ozark 
Lyrics.” She says she is indeed a true Hill-Billy, having 
spent the greater part of her past life in the hill coun- 
try, and I add, the pleasant expression, the twinkle in her 
eye bespeaks of much happiness and health too, to be 
found in “Them Thar Hills.” Mrs. Mahnkey writes of 
homey, every-day things, with all to the point of 
briefness so appealing. She was married to Charles Preston 
Mahnkey in 1899. She is the mother of four children and 
lives at Mincy, Missouri. 

— 156 — 


Duty is an ugly jade 

From Repentance cloth her robes are made* 
1 do not like heir leering grin 
But submissively I follow in 

,Where Duty lies in sunless gloom 
"No singing birds, no joyous bloom 
She grimly tells me what to do 
Meekly I drink her bitter brew. 

(Springfield Daily News) 


She scanned the table with her keen old eyes 
There was the brown fried chicken 
The creamy custard pies 
The cool bright green of pickles 
And the ruby glow of jell; 

Then she hastened to the cellar 
Just before she rang the bell 
.And brought the golden butter 
With its frosty drops of dew 
ChiUed and sweet and delicate 
In a deep bowl of blue. 


She was in sorrow 
Almost despair 

But she brushed and she curled 
Her snowy white hair. 

Her thin wrinkled hands 
Marked with toil and with pain 
Touched lightly, clutched tightly 
A ruby bead chain. 

The years shall not crush her, 

Nor sorrow, or care 

For she wears her red beads 

And curls her white hair. 

— Marv Elizabeth Mahnkey 
— 157 — 

EOY E. MARTIN was born September 
28, 1879, on a farm near Atlantic, Iowa. 
Son of Matthew W. Martin and Helen 
Farmer Martin. Family of five. English 
and Scottish ancestry. Rural mail car- 
rier at Springfield, Mo., since 1912. Re- 
cently retired. Author of 100 poems, and 
songs. Often referred to as “The Post- 
man Poet.” 

Member of The Hillcrofters and The Qzarkian 
Writers Guild. 

Ou islanding trait of character, 
fidelity to the memory of his only 
daughter, Mrs, Ruth Blaine Martin 
Brooks of Chicago, deceased (1936). 

The deep and beautiful devotion, 
existing from childhood between 
father and daughter, whose picture 
appears herewith, and who was a 
talented singer, actress and poet, has 
been a source of inspiration for Mr. 

Martin's many beautiful .poems, such 
as the following: 


At the side of a scenic wooded dell 
In the early mornifig' light, : 

She, smiling, waved a long farewell 
Till I faded flrom her -sight; 

For I drove all day on that last long way 
Till the falling shades of night. 

The sun rose red. the clouds hung low, 

Then came the storm and rain, 

Prophetic (I would later know) 

Of coming years of min, 

And Tnir soul- was astir with a prayer for her 
'Bll we should meet again. 

I had looked at 'life through glasses bright 
As a drop of purple wine, 

Ther° wa? naught my work or faith to blight, 
No threatening sinister sign, 

— 158 — 

And I still had gleams of those old, old dreams 
When youth and hope were mine. 

The flowers bloom and tne days are long — 

The seasons come and go. 

The world 's filled with mirth and song 
But joy I can not know; 

For my heart lies there m that hillside grave — 
Where the silent night wrnds blow. 


On life’s path are loved ones near me 
Boses rare in deserts drear. 

How they help, console, and cheer me 
As I dr*f L — from year to year — 

Some teach love and some teach duty. 
Sacrifice and self control. 

Some have tact and wit and beauty — 

All have wealth of mind and soul. 

The harvest field that’s white and wailing 
For the reaper’s helping hand. 

Greets, entreats, and writes the rating — 
Sons of men in every land ; 

Those who work, the wrong assailing. 

Toil till the sunset’s lading ray. 

Those who shirk, are falt’ring, railing — 

All must face the judgment day. 

Oft I pause and wait and wonder 
As the years go speeding by. 

As my hopes are rent asunder 

And my heart cries, “why, oh why?” 

At the end of all things rr orial 

Will I slumber with the just ? 

Join my love at heaven's portal. 

When this dust returns to dust ? 

God has given, God has taken, 

Pearls of price, worth wealth and fame. 
But w : th ferv<m + faith unshaken 
Still I hail His holy name. 

Clouds my skies ro?v dim a~d da-v enk 
Time at last will some day tell. 

All who to the Word shall hearken 
That He doeth all things well 
— 159 — 


A.ddah. Matthews, native 
Ozarkian, was boirn in 
Barry County near Cass- 
ville, Missouri. She taught 
school several years, in 
both Barry and Lawrence 
Counties. She was married 
to Roger Matthews, of 
]'■<’ net - . Mo. They have 
one daughter. Has resided 
in Monett since her mar- 
riage 30 years ago. She 
loves the Ozarks, and has 
collected much data on the 
folk lore, of the hills. 
She is a member of the 
Hillcrofters, Gasconade 
Winters’ Guild, and Ozark 
Writers and Artists groups. 

Mrs. Matthews writes both poetry and prose. Her 
work has been published in many Newspapers, Farm 
J 'ayasines, 0 ark Guide, Anthologies, Whightman Melton’s 
Book on Trees. She has sold material to Mirandy of 
“Persimmon Holler.” She has written about 400 poems 
and. several short stories. 

Her hobby, aside from writing, is collecting buttons. 
She belongs to a National Button Collecting Society. She 
also collects rocks, and likes to travel. She aspires to 
visiting every state in the union. 

She is very active in Church, lodge and club work in 
her town. 


Poets sing of gallant knights and of lovers bold, 

Of women fair, and mighty heroes both young and old ; 
And the use of pretty phrases theiir fame to portray, 
Forgetting still the women, who cpok three meals a day, 

- 160 — 

Man/ women have aone this time old task 

Day by day, shut in from the world, no honors they ask: 

Bakin’, broilin’, fryin’, they never ask pay; 

Happy and content with cooking- three meals a day. 
These women rise e’er daylight kisses darkness adieu; 
For there’s floors to be swept and dishes to do; 

They measure each task, their own untiring way, 

So they will have the time to cook three meals a day. 
Feeding sons and daughter who will make a great name, 
Feeding those, who will never know riches or fame. 
These upraised women give loyalty and love I’d say 
As they lovingly and faithfully cook three meals a day. 
Their work is mightier than the work of great fame; 
Unknown to the world their praise I would sing; 

As their hands and their brains keep working away, 

For it takes work and thought to cook three meals a day. 


A baby potato hied as the wind passed by, 

Naughty wind blows onion in my eye; 

Mamma potato scolded the wind, stop, stop, I say, 
Enraged she showed her Irish, the wind went its way. 
On he rampaged to the home of the cabbage head; 

I’ll blow dust on you the wind teasingly said, 

Proud Miss Cabbage shouted, “Stop mean wind, stop 
Now I must get a shampoo at a down town Beauty shop.*’ 
The wind gayly laughed at the Cabbage's dusty head 
And puffed on across the garden where stood, instead. 
Rows of Country Gentleman corn with many big ears 
Covered securely with silk and shuck, free from fears. 
Of Mr. Wind and his teasing pranks, puff and blow, 
With each ear protected, the corn stood bravely in row, 
Shouting begone wind our ears are closed to gossip, ever ; 
For you bully and tease, we are a bit too clever. 

The mischievous wind sighed, for if he blew his best 
He was beaten. The sun was sinking in the west. 

So the wind pillowed its head somewhere out of sight, 
And dreamed of new adventures, all through the night. 

— Addah Matthews. r 

■ 161 — 

Bom at Salem, Mo., 
December 18, 1861. His 
father, Ezekiel B. Mat- 
thews, joined the Union 
forces under Grant in 1862. 
and died near Vicksburg, 
and is buried in the Na- 
tional Cemetery at Youngs 
Point on the Mississippi 
River. George W. with 
his two sisters and two 
brothers grew up on the 
farm of their grandfather, 
Wm. Hudspeth, located on 
the beautiful ‘’Cotaway” 
(Courtois) River, near 
Berryman (then Osage P. 
0.) in Crawford County, 

This region of the Ozarks is wonderful, Along the 
creeks which are fed by innumerable springs of almost 
ice cold, cystal clear wa,er; were groves of wild plum and 
cherry and crab apple trees, which, when in bloom in the 
springtime are a rare and most beautiful sight. In this 
region the growing child’s mind and heart are impressed 
with the beauties of nature, and if cultivated with 
poetic and romantic ideals, will lead to great happiness 
throughout life. From the age of 12 to 16 George W. 
Matthews attended the Salem Academy. At 21 years of 
age Mr. Matthews located in St. Louis, where he was for 
more than 20 years a railroad man. Afterwards he was 
associate editor and advertising manager of Monetary 
Record, a monthly financial journal, published by Judge 
Jacob C. Fisher. In the autumn of 1907, Mr. Matthews 
moved with his family to Chicago, where he has since 
made his home.. He is now (1944) in his 83rd year; still 
active in body and mind. Takes an interest in political 
and world affairs ; reads much, thinks some, writes a little 
and devotes a few hours each day to his advertising 



Listen, listen and learn from this why I am glad, for 
this means you as well as me. I’ve lived a lot — I have 
known great and lasting happiness — and I am glad. I 
have loved, earnestly, ardently and devotedly, and my 
heart oetn broken because ti it — yet na glad. 

I have known the greatest sorrow and felt the deep- 
est grief, and loneliness and heartache — still I’m glad. 
I’ve tried and failed and Been laughed at; earned money 
and spent it; visioned great wealth and power and 
position and achieved none of these— 

And wny am I glad? I am glad because I have life; 
glad because out of ail the tilings I might have been, I 
was, like you, born human, with the marvelous and 
magnificent gift of a brain, and the dauntless and divine 
gift of a soul. I am glad that I live, and in my eighty- 
second year, glad that I can still dream and still 
love, — glad because once in a million times I’ve been 
brave, even though I may be a coward; and once in a 
million times I’ve been honest, even though I may be a 
liar, and once in a million times I have been wise and 
kind though I may seem stupid and cruel— glad that 
something in me was always higher, always finer, always 
whiter than my outward acts. 

And most of all, most of all I’m glad because I have 
loved — glad because I dared to demand love, dared to risk 
everything I had in the service of love, and dared to go 
on loving, even when I failed at love; for love is worth 
all it may cost, anything it may cost— tears, prayers, 
shame, suffering, loneliness, heartache — a grave. Love is 
worth anything; life is worth everything, and I am 
glad because I’ve learned it. And no matter what the 
learning may cost. I hope there’ll be more to learn, more 
to buy, more to pay, more living, more loving — forever 
And if there isn’t any more? If this is all there is? 
Then, still I am glad— still glad I ,am here— and if in that 
last moment before the long silence, I shall hear death 
calling, God give me dominion and strength to whisper: 
Why death, you can’t hurt me, nor rob me, nor scare me 

— life is eternal, love is everlasting! I am not afraid I 

have lived and loved ! — George W. Matthews 

— 163 — 


Perry James Mason was born near Bois D’Arc, Mis- 
souri, on Hallowe’en, 1901, son of E. C. and Amanda 
Mason, where he spent sixteen rather uneventful years. 
Of course there was the usual broken bones, school 
activities and affairs of the heart. He loved to hunt and 
fish, and preferred to go alone. He is remembered as a 
good marksman. 

When 16 years old he, his father, and brother, 
Hairvey, tcok two well di filing rigs to the booming mining 
district of N. E. Oklahoma. They settled at Quapaw. 
Here Perry finished high school in 1920. His parents did 
not feel able to send him to college, but he scraped 
together money for books, and entered Drury College 
that fall. In 1925, entirely through his own efforts, he 
took A. B. and B. S. degrees from Springfield Teachers 
College. . 

But over exertion took its toll. About this time he 
went out to teach and he was stricken by a rare nerve 
paralysis, Parkinson’s disease, which gradually affected 
his speech and left side. He still walks very well and can 
use his left arm some. There is no known cure or even 
treatment for the affliction which is progressive. 

All his' life he has written jingles, but in 1932, when 
he realized he must give up his career, he began writing 
seriously. Since then he has written some 500 poems, 
most of which have appeared in Springfield and other 
newspapers and magazines. He has published three books 
of verse, of which 6,000 copies have been sold. 

When this was written, 1943, he was working in a 
defense plant at Quapaw, Okla. 

— 164 — 


(Published in Springfield, Mo., News, and in 
’‘Human Inierest In Poetry and Prose.”) 

I saw a baby smile at me, 

So innocent, so sweet. 

,He knew no reason he should be 
At all reserved, discreet. 

His very soul showed in his face, 

He held me not in awe. 

In his small span he knew no trace 
Of tact or social law. 


(Published in Springfield (Mo.) News). 

An advertisement? If you please. 

I hope that many a reader sees. 
Although I know that I must sell. 

The hurt it gives I cannot tell. 

How shall I word my little ad? 

I cannot think with heart so sad. 

“For sale: A cradle — baby bed.” 

That is enough. He was born dead. 

— Perry Masor 


‘‘Hillbilly Queen’’ 

She has many titles, but 
she loves the one of ‘Queen 
of the Hillbillies” the most. 
She was “crowned” at a 
ceremony of the Ozarklan 
Hillcrofters several years 

Listed in “Who’s Who in 
America,” Mrs. McCord is 
nationally known as a folk- 
lore h Her column “Hill- 
billy Heartbeats” which ran 
for ten years in Springfield 
Papers, Inc., endeared her to 
thousands, and she was later 
heard over the Radir Mutual 
Network, KWK, St. Louis. 

Folklorist, lecturer, collector of ballads, traditions, 
lore and legendry of the Ozark Mountains, Mrs. McCord 
has recorded for the Library of Congress more than a 
hundred ballads and play party and old shape-note hymns. 
Many of these are recorded in her own voice. She has 
perhaps done more than any other Ozarkian to preserve 
for posterity, sympathetically, the olden things peculiar 
to the Orarks, its survivals and its culture. She is the 
pivot around which the Ozarkian Hillcrofters’ Organiza- 
tion revolves ; the heart and soul of everything Ozarkian. 
Her story, a typical hill story in American Mercury in 
1941,“ A Partin’ in Smoky Holler,” was required reading 
in a New York University — as a “history of the language.” 

Mrs. McCord's highest aim has always been that of 
wife and mother. Her husband, Charles C. McCord, passed 
to the land beyond in September of 1943. She has two 
sons, Lesl’e, her youngest, in the Navy, and Charles, Jr., 
of Springfield, Mo. Her daughter, Maudeva McCord Janss, 
lives in Springfield. 

Mrs. McCord is a director of the National Folklore 
Festivals and is in demand over the nation as a lecturer. 
Her poetry, singing gold, is whimsically lovely, typical of 


the heart of the writer. She sings and her ballads are as 
wind in the trees, softly laughing. She brings tears with 
tier realistic word-pictures of intimate things as she sings 
her beautiful lyrics. 

May Kennedy McCord — beloved, adored, reverenced 
and cherished — . a native Ozarkian. Her home is in 
Springfield, Mo. 


Sing me an old, old ballad, dear, 

While I lie here and rest, 

And I shall remember a bunch of lace 
Against a sweet old breast. 

I’m tired cf songs with labored themes, 
With motif stiff and strained, 

Sing me a mournful mountain tune 
"And I’ll find my heart again. 

Sing a song of the buffalo days 
That Granny tells about, 

While I lay my hands across my eyes 
And shut the whole world out. 

Sing an old “come all ye” ballad, dear, 
With notes so strange and wild, 

“The Gypsy’s Warning,” dark with pain, 
The grave, where sleeps her child! 

Sing an old tale cf love, my dear, 

With death-bells in the telling, 

Like crying wind that can’t forget 
The love of “Barbara Ellen.” 

For life is a strange grey laughter, dear, 
And love is a crimson pain — 

So sm or jn e an old. old ballad, 

And I’ll find my heart a^ain. 

— May Kennedy McCord, 

— 167 — 

m. l. McCullough 

Born near Sandy Lake, Pa. The pro- 
duction of crude oil has been his life's 
work which has icarried him to many 
part of the Globe. He made two so- 
journs to the Far East, Upper Assam 
India, and Burma where World War II 
caught him in 1939. He remained in the 
service of the Burma Oil Co. until evac- 
uated by military when the Japanese 
were 15 miles out of the oil field town. 

The Japanese needed oil and did not bomb the oil field 
but airplanes would swoop down and machine gun every- 
thing for four months before the Allies had to fall back 
because of lack of equipment at that point at that time. 
Mr. McCullough’s letters of his travels and experiences 
have been widely published and he has been sought and 
has spoken at many Kiwanis, Rotary and other organiza- 

Mr. McCullough was married to Florence Woodlock 
in 1909. They have two sons, Staff Sgt. Duoyne L. 
McCullough in foreign service (India) and Pfc. Dannie D. 
McCullough also in foreign service (Pacific). 

His home is Joplin, Mo., Route 1. 

Florence Woodlock McCullough 

Was born in Davisville, Mo., to Patrick D. and 
Henrietta Woodlock. 

Married M. L. McCullough of Sandy Lake, 
Pa., in 1909. They have two sons, Staff Sgt. 
Duoyne L. McCullough, a Flying Radioman in 
Foreign Service, and Pfc. Dannie Dale McCul- 
lough, Demolition man, also in Foreign Service. 
Mrs. McCullough says the menfolks of her family are 
all wonderful, she could not help being proud of them. 
Mrs. McCullough writes poems and juvenile stories, which 
have appeared in many newspapers and anthologies both 
in U. S. A. and England. She compiled and published the 
first edition of “Living Authors of the Ozarks and Their 
Literature” in 1940, and second edition now compiled. 

Member of Hillcrofters, Ozark Writers Guild, Tri- 
State Writers, The Ozark Press, and The Missouri His- 
torical Society. Her home is Joplin, Mo., Route 1. 


The trumpet calls our youth to fight. 

A ruthless cruel foe, 

Thru months with aching muscles 
Thru this training he must go. 

In mud, rain and freezing nights 
Or desert’s sand and heat, 

Long are the hours, hard is the way, 

For ouir soldiers’ weary feet, t 

This son of Freedom does all this 
That the world be free again. 

Fail not to count his sacrifices, 

His work, his blood, his pain. 

Fail not! I say, these Soldier lads, 

Oh. bend your knee and pray, 

God’s choicest blessinsrs on these boys 
Who go that YOU may stay. 

— Flo Woodlock McCullough 

— 169 — 


Mr;.. Audra (Connelly) Milum was bom near 
Champaign,, Illinois, came to Harrison, Arkansas with 
her parent;, where she still resides. 

tohe was married in 1907 to Roy W. Mil um 
“Life begins at 40” may be grand in a book but Mrs. 
Milum says “it is still grand at 50 and at this stage of 
the game the most important thing is that she has five 
lovely little granddaughers,” 

Mrs. Milum has written poems from childhood, never 
having any published unt.l she was past 50. In the sunset 
of life, she started them on their way where they have 
found refuge in several Anthologies, many magazines and 
newspapers. One editor writes, “Writing verses is a 
wholesome and happy hobby with Mrs. Milum. Keenly 
observant of life and its tasks, duties and joy, all around 
her, she has learned to write of the things she knows and 
loves — a Poetess of Humanity and Home. 

Anthologies — Poets on Parade, Christmas Lyrics, The 
Poetry Digest, The New York World's Fair Anthology, 
Blue River Anthologies 6 and 7, and Living Authors of 
the Ozarks. 

Magazines — Country Bard, Modern Bards, Sigma Iota 
XI, Scimitar and Song, Arcadian Life, Skylines, Reflections, 
Musings, Visions, Candor, Today in Poetry, Song and Story, 
Quest, Cantos Abrowsos, Midland Poetry Review, Faucets, 
Mother’s Day Bouquet, New Era News, Lighted 
Pathway, Fletcher's Farming Ozark Messenger, and Chris- 
tian Visiter. 


My own dear people once lived here, 

Yet from their finished race, 

I seem to walk the streets alone 
With scarce a familiar face. 

Our town is filled with those who come 
To make our city bright, 

I welcome them with open arms 
Yet . . . I’m alone tonight. 

— 170 — 

The little stars peep out at me 
The same moon shines above. 

But in the crowded streets I stand 
And sigh — - for those I loved. 

My silent people lie asleep 
The new ones do not know. 

What happened in this little town 
A few short years ago. 


When will we mortals learn 
Life’s trials not to spurn 
As the wheel of fate does turn? 
The spring is most complete 

Then summer, autumn leaf 
And fall brings sad hearts grief. 
But we hug false glow 
We fail to enjoy the snow 
That’s human . . . even so. 

The spring we think is real 
Till sad heart aches we feel 
While turning life’s great wheel. 
Are all our fancies lost 
On waves of life, high tossed, 
Worth all the tears they cost? 


Jane Marlin was born August 19, 1931, at Springfield, 
Missouri. She is the third daughter of Mrs. Ida Greer 
of Warsaw, Missouri. At present, she is a seventh grade 
pupil of Mrs. Lois Day of Benton County. She has taken 
a great interest in writing rhymes, some of which follow 


.She walked and talked; then sang a song 
Merrily as we walked along. 

]vV'e always had a good time together 
CSTo matter what kind of weather; 

She was as pretty as pretty could be, 

And oh ! my joy when she walked with me. 


Do you like the rain ? I do. Why wouldn’t you ? 
When it rains it pours, so stay indoors 
Even though you like the rain. 

Do you like to walk in the rain 
And see the pretty neon stain 
it’s fun to run in the rain, just ru 
And then walk out in the sun. T 
fhe rain usually comes down 

Splashing on roofs in city or town. 

And when I’m in my grave 
you may think of the rain I crave. 

And when we walked in the rain 
While it was beating on the window pane. 

— Jane Mar sin. 

— 172 — 


My parents were born and reared in Franklin County, 
111. They moved to Kansas in the year of 1878. They 
moved to Benton County, Ark., where I was born Feb- 
ruary 24, 1881, where the Pea Ridge Battle was fought in 
the Civil War. My Father was a miner and a timberman, 
naturally he taught me to follow him working in Timber 
and Mines, Was married at the age of 22 to Miss Emma 
Payne. There were nine children born to us, seven girls 
and two boys, of whom three girls and one son died in 

. it was a happy life to me and my family, until 
God took from the family the Dear Wife and Mother on 
August 28th, 1840. I am at this time living with my only 
son in the City of St. Louis, Missouri. 


There’s a lovely place in the “Ozarks” 

Where — YOU — and I will be, 

If you’ll come to “Oregon County” 

And spend a week or two with me. 

We’ll stroll out in the Wildwoods, 

Where all Nature is quiet and still, 

JEnjoy a real vacation — “There, 

'Out on a beautiful “Ozark hill.” 

Or we may go on the — River, 
jFish for Crappie, Bass and trout, 

And if you chance to fall in the water, 

I’ll be there to fish you out. 

Here in the lovely Ozark region, 

We’ll encounter many thrills, 

Peace and joy reigns forever, 

"Out in the rugged Ozark hills. 

You may come in the month of April, 

Or you may come in the month of May, 

If you spend a week m the “Ozarks” 

You will sure come back Someday! 

(Copyright by F. 0. Moore) 



Born December 14th, 
1888, near Danville, Illinois, 
the fourth child of eight 
born to John Jackson 
Myers and Amanda Acton 

Came to Missouri at the 
age of eight years. I can re- 
member yet the fear and 
trepidation with which my 
mother and sisters first 
set foot on the “ill reputed 
soil of Joplin”, and the 
shocked surprise we all ex- 
perienced to find Joplin 
people as fine, respectable 
and as hospitable as the 
friends we left behind us.. 
Married in 1908. Have 
a son and a daughter. Have written a good many factual 
articles, some of which have been accepted by metropolitan 
newspapers, several by local papers. Have also written and 
published a few short stories and some poems. 


When freedom’s faint beginning was just a shy wild hope 
That had its birth in some forefather’s heart, 

But sprang to instant being, an ideal of his soul 
As he breathed it to his neighbor at his work or in his 
home ! 

It was then emotion seized it! It was flung from mouth 
to mouth, 

A righteous flaming subject for debate .... 

And then . . . the rolling blare of drums and march of 
booted feet 

And Freedom was a cause to fight and die for! 

I thank thee God for Freedom and the will of my forebears 
to win it! 

— 174 — 

I pray thee God for health and strength and the courage 
to defend it! 

Majestic, our nation rose, the home of Liberty! 

Tne tyrant's yoae was sprung and snattered them ! 

We’re evermore a people born of equality. 

Let’s not be smug, self satisfied, but prayerfully remember 

As we proudly stand beneath our worthy Stars and 
a tripes, freedom 

Born of some Heart oppressed and suffering, - 

r>acK to tne near t again must fly for nourishment and life, 

Lnuuring only, wnne stauncfi souls upfloid its cause. 

1 tnamc inee uod ior f reedom and tne will of my forebears 
to win it! 

I pray thee God for health and strength and the courage 
to defend it! • 


Laugning April, misty eyed, 

,iou wm always be my true love. 

Rams may pour and storms may ride 
Laughing April, misty eyed, 

I lacs shining, dripping, bide, 

Iris brilliant, raindrops hide. 

Laughing April, misty eyed, 

You will always be my true love. 

Happy April, tender still 
You are ever dearest to me. 

Your beauties . cause my eyes to fill 
Happy April, tender still 

Rainbow in the roadside rill 
Seeks its own up o’er the hill. 

Happy April, tender still 
You are ever dearest to me. 

— Nell M. Moore. 

— 175 - 

Betty Lee Middlebrook, says no 'one has much of a 
biograpny, at twenty-one. there is not much she can 
teh you about ner life. But she says, “I have lived 
in different parts of the Ozarks, but have never 
really been out of tnem — to live. ‘‘Nothing spectacular 
ever happened to me, and my life has no milestones. I 
remember the towns wnere I have lived mainly by the 
shape of the hills around them. Wherever I was, I 
was well acquainted witn u.e country side, and every 
clear day explored it on my bicycle. I still use the same 
bicycle I started out with, ft is rather worn and tattered 
now, but we have journeyed together over many roads, 
disputed the right of way with stubborn mules, coasted 
slowly through Arkansas peach orchards and pedaled over 
pine ridges and through dry creek beds and over rattly 
wooden bridges ; we have travelled roads lined with yellow 
bitter weeds on summer days when the hot earth smelled 
of sun; we have side-slipped down gravelly slopes and 
come peacefully home in so many sunsets that I think it 
keeps on going now out of loyalty to me. 

“I am the housekeeper of our home — ray mother works 
as a bookkeeper, so I have learned to bake a cherry pie, 
and collect recipes — yes, and quilt patterns, too, in my more 
domestic moods. (Some day, when I get around to it, I 
am going to make a quilt.) 

“We have many books, so I read, too. Sometimes when 
I am reading, I forget about dinner cooking on the stove, 
and it bums. I get books from out-of-town libraries, too. 
I want to write biographies; and am now studying the 
Johnson era and working on a biography of Mrs. Thrale. 
“I guess that’s all there is to my life.” 


, Old saying in my memory 
| Like lavender I keep — 

“Laugh before you breakfast, 

Cry before you sleep.” 

They stir the mind and calm the heart 
As west wind do — 

— 176 — 

“When yoi hea a hoot owl 
Turn your shoe.” 

Saying’s vital as the rain, 

Whimsical as laughter; 

Quaint as strings of withered herbs 
Hanging from a rafter. 

"“When a thing’s past mending 
Better let it be.” 

Miniature collections 
Of Philosophy. 

■“Red clouds at the sunset 
Bring a lovely day.” 

“Snakeskin from a wren's nest 
Charms your warts away.” 

“Never sweep the house dust 
Out across the sills.” 

“Buckeye from the hills of home 
Cures all ili_.” 

— Betty Lee MIddlebrook. 
Published in “Springfield Daily News” June, 1940 


I was born in Eastern Nebraska and was reared on 
the plains of Kansas. “There was no indication that I had 
latent poetic talent, excepting for one incident. My parents 
look me, witn tnree older brothers to a phrenologist to 
have our “neads examined.” As I remember this was done 
tnorougniy ana pinnsiaKingly. Hooks with charts were 
idled out for future guidance in the careers of four round- 
eyed, awe-struck children. 

According to the phrenologist, the “bumps” on my 
head indicated that I had teaching ability and also a 
poetic “bump"’ The embryo of poetic talent was then, and 
has been ever since, considered a huge joke in my family. 

I taught in the public schools of Kansas and Iowa for 
several ytars, wicnout as must as a single jingle or rhyme 
to my credn. r io breaK the monotony I worked for a year 
at the Rembrandt studio, where I learned portrait 
photography. I bought the old Buck Studio in Webb City. 
Then came the year of 1918. My two brothers had enlisted 
in the Army and I was married. Later a friend and I 
bought a studio in Tulsa, which we operated for nine years. 


(Honorable mention in “Flaming Fall Revue” contest 1939) 

Oh, Poet ! How can you paint with words 
The charm of the Ozark autumn hills? 

Can you catch and hold the flame and gold. 

Or the haunting call of sylvan rills ? 

Can you portray with a facile pen 

A summer that poaches on autumn’s reign, 

An errant chinock on a chilly mom, 

Or the harvest glory of fruit and grain? 

Can you capture peace from quiet glades, 

The strength of radiant far flung hills. 

The pulse of life in sheltering gloom, , 

Or the weird night cry of whip-poor-wills? 

The raptured glow on a rugged face, 

That lifts to the call of the wild brant’s flight, 


Or the faith again in God and man, 

'l'nat is oorn born anew in the star-lit night 7 

Vain Poet. You can not paint for me 
A thing so precious, divinely fair — 

"I is the breath of Hope to faltering hearts.. 

The Spirit of God in answered prayer. 


Oh, there’s something in the winter, 

When the days are dark and drear, 
Makes it worth the time of waiting. 

When an Ozark spring is near. 

Something in a snowy landscape 

Brings to mind the dogwood white — 

And of silent shadowed valleys. 

Spring will weave the purple night. 

Something in the frowning cliff brow. 

Where the icy frescoes cling. 

Tells us, — columbines will bloom there; 
With the coming of the spring. 

Something in the first sweet trilling, 

From a tree branch bare and drear. 

Stirs us, — now that buds are swelling, 

And the springtime’s almost here. 

Soon again we’ll go a-roving, 

Vagrant as a dethroned king — 

Oh, the winter’s worth the waiting, 

When it brings an Ozark spring.' 

— ^Carrie Mosser. 


I quote here a part of 
Mr. Murphy’s lovely letter, 
so well spoken I will not at- 
tempt to rewrite a bio- 
graphical sketch 'for him. 

I was born in Festus, 
Missouri. I grew lip close 
to the dewberry vines and 
the stump-scarred hills of 
clay which I write about. 
I have tramped all over the 
Ozarks and lived a year in 
Arkanas. And I am a pro- 
duct of Missouri ttate edu- 
cationally. The past ten 
years, however, I have been 
outside the state working 
for my doctorate and 
teaching in other universi- 
ties. I came here to teach 

last September, and “Doomed Race” was published late in 
December. Another book, “Boy With A Silver Plow” was 
published, sometime earlier. 

You may be interested in knowing that a third book 
called “Out Of The Clay ” goes to the publisher this week. 
My mother attended a one-room log school for a few years. 
I taught in that same little Pleasant Grove School. The 
more university degrees I got the more determined I be- 
came to write poetry so simple and so heart-felt that even 
the humblest layman would understand and like it. 
Quotations from “Doomed Race”: 


I saw a clod-hopper plowing for bread 
Ozark share-croppers dying, not dead. 

— 180 - 

I heard a hill woman’s grief, at thirty. 

And raggea younguns hungry, dirty. 

Life was contrary; sorrow sufficed — 

I thougnc or ivxary and a man named Christ. 


S' When I was a lanky Ozark lad, 

A hickory whistle was all I had. 

A hickory whistle — but the tunes I blew 
Were light as a thistle, clear as dew. 

Now that I’m older I envy him 
Who captured music in a hickory limb. 


Who will lament these simple Mountaineers 
When presently they take their holiday 
In heedless dust, or who will pause to say 
Brave threnodies appropriately theirs? 

Who will remark this man who cleared frontiers 
With glenting arm and grubbed the rooty clay, 
.Or who will mourn this woman, starved and gray. 
After the last lean sunset disappears? 

Weep not for Troy, weep not for Greece, nor Rome, 
Nor all the marbled peonies of the past. 

They will endure in stone. But erieve, instead, 

A simpler race whom leads back home 
To auiet clav. nuhonored and outcast. 

And dumb beside the monumental dead. 

* — Dennis Murphy. 


Mable E. Mueller of Rolla, Missouri, Poet, Author 
Folklorist, Columnist tor thirty yeans. Writes in part, 
‘'Being a Hid-billy.” She writes of hillbilly things', an° 
wrote each week over a period of two years for Wash- 
ington, B. C. Archives, perpetuating \Ozark Folklore. 
She has also wrote as a reporter for the St. Jjouis, 
Kansas City, and Springfield, Missouri, papers. She 
has collected over 5000 complete phrajses, and over 
3000 words not found in dictionary, all “first hand,” and 
several thousand Ozarkian superstitions — legends, dialect, 
ghost and witch stories, ancient riddles, dances, fiddle tunes, 
play party games, old ballads and many other such things 
pertaining to Ozarkian Folklore. 

Mirandy of National Farm and Home Hour — coast to 
cost — network, NBC, uses her dialect poems and philoso- 
phy and called it “charming.” 

Mrs. Mueller lives in Rolla, Mo. 


Thar’s suthin’ bout these hills o’ mine, 

Thet sets my heart aglow, 

Ther’s suthin’ mity homey-like, 

An’ comfortin’ tu know. 

Ther’s a heap o’ joyous livin’, 

Ye ketch et at a glance, 

An’ ever’ breath o’ air ye breathe^" 

Is chuck full o’ romance. 

The sight o’ them tall sturdy oaks. 

An’ corn-rows standin’ by, 

With snlashin’ streams atellin’ ye 
Thet “Kingdom Come” is nigh. 

Ther's a head o‘ satisfaction, 

In knowin’ whut life’s worth, 

You git it in the growin’ 

/An’ the smell o’ Ozark earth. 

I wouldn’t trade it nary bit, 

Fer city work er play, 


Jes’ got a hankerin’ notion, 

I’m planted hyar tu stay. 

(2nd Prize Winner, 1942, Mabel E. Mueller, 8th 
Annual Poet-Laureate Contest, Conducted by 
KWTO and KGBX, Springfield, Missouri). 


— An Ozarkian Woman’s Last Request — 
When it cums time fer me to die, 

I don’t want folks t’ stand roun’ an’ cry, 

An’ tip-toe quiet ’cross the floor, 

Pull down the blinds an’ crepe the door. 
’Tain’t ary use tu stop the clock, 

’En put me in a windin’ frock, 

Don't want no hi-fa-lutin’ choir, 

’Er a preachin’ man you haf tu hire. 

Don’t want a crowd o’ curious eyes. 

Awaitin’ roun’ tu hyar folks lies, 

’Erbout how good en bad I bin, 

’En whut wuz my outstandin’ sin. 

Flowers thet I kain’t see ’en smell, 

I like ’em heap whilst I am well, 

Hain’t no use fer a big-tu-do, 

’Ith scads o’ folks I never "knew. 

Jes’ sum kin’ wurds an’ soothin’ hands, 

Tu hep me crost tu unseen lands, 

An 4 fold my arms agin my breast, 

Contented like tu rest an’ rest. 

I hope thet sum kind frien’ll cum, 

An’ breathe a prayer an’ gently strum. 

My ol’ git tar, a hummin’ low, 

My fav’rite tune, "Long, Long, Ago.” 

Hain’t no use fer a great big fuss, 

Uv 'Yearth tu Yearth an’ Dus’ tu dus’; 

Jes’ plant me ’neath a hickory tree, 

Wush me well an’ let me be. 

— Mable E. Mueller. 

■18S — 


Mrs. Phil Mueller, born at Cardwell, Mo., in 1907, be- 
began writing short stories while yet in school. Has one 
story now ready for publication entitled, “An Ocean 
Between. ’’ 

Attended business college at Poplar Bluff, Mo. Worked 
as stenographei in St. Louis, before her marriage in 1927. 
They have one daughter and live in Webster Groves, Mo. 



Old Faithful — you have been for many years, 

A most loyal friend, 

Ever since I first knew you ; 

In times of sorrow and distress 

You were there to give me strength and courage. 

In times of joy and pleasure you were there for 
celebration ; 

In toilsome hours at work you relieved my fatigue, 
And gave renewed strength to finish my task; 

But old faithful — the best of friends must part — 
Our parting time is now here; 

Farewell my loyal friend — “coffee” — 

We shall live in happy memories of the past, 

— au re voir — 

At the banquet of victory, we shall meet again 
In triumph and celebration. 

— Frances Neidholt, 
Chillicothe, Mo. 


Luna E. Newton was 
born February 5, 1908, in 
a log cabin near Ava, Mo., 
where he graduated iroro 
high school a valedictorian. 
Has written poetry since 
childhood and has appear- 
ed in many publications. 
Has published a book of his 
own poems, “Voice From 
the Hills”. 

He also had the honor of 
being chosen poet laureate 
of the Ozarks in 1937 with 
his poem of “Grandfather 
Gray” which he composed 
in about 30 minutes while 
he was employed in re- 
planting corn on his fath- 
er’s farm, as were many of his beautiful poems. 

Mr. Newton has taught school several years and re- 
sides in Springfield, Mo., with his wife and two daughters, 
Carole Jean and Judy Ann. 


I wonder who invented smiles 
Or first learned how to grin — 
Who first learned how to laugh away 
The trouble he was in. 

Who ever did, whatever his name, 

Has done a deed worth while ; 

And he deserves undying fame 
Who taught the world to smile. 

— 186 — 


Pray, peddler, what do you have to sell ? 

My lady is ill today; 

Yet, if your wares be right, my man, 

Right well, may you count your pay. 

Could you sell me a breath of Ozark air? 

Or a song like the irobin sings? 

Or a glass of water cool and clear, 

Dipped fresh from an Ozark spring ? 

A dozen apples both ripe and red 
Methinks would do her good, 

Or a quart of the luscious blueberries 
That grow in your Ozark wood. 

Come, what are your wares, oh peddler man ? 

Make haste, I pray you, speak! 

Have you any bright Ozarks flowers, perchance, 
That would brighten my lady’s cheek? 

The hills were all scarlet and blue and gold 
When my lady left Ozark land. 

If you could tell her about them now — 

Come, peddler;' you understand? 

O, peddler, sir ; if you have them all — 

Those priceless wares I name — 

Your fortune thrice is already made, 

And my lady is well again. 

— Luna E. Newton 

- 187 — 


Was born near Knoxville, Iowa. He attended 
college to Indianola, Iowa, Detroit School of Fine 
Arts, completed penmanship in Detroit Business College. 
He engaged in pnotographic work for a good many 
years. He met and married Miss Almira Davis and 
came to Missouri to handle the western office of the Key- 
stone View Company. He traveled much of the time, 
visited twenty-tWO countries, some of them 
being Mexico, five Republics of Central America, 
England, Ireland, Germany, Italy, Norway and Sweden. 

Among the many things of interest it was his good for- 
tune to attend and visit was the Burial of Pope X, Leo XIII, 
and the election of Pope Pius X in Rome. In Norway the 
funeral of Henrik Ibsen, the great dramatist, King Haa- 
kon’s Crowning including a special photograph of the King 
and Queen and Crown Prince Olaf, the king’s brother who 
afterwards became King George and the Queen and Prin- 
cess Alice, the last Czar of Russia and Prince Henry of 

Mr. Payne has written seven-hundred and fifty poems. 
He now lives in, he says, the most beautiful place in all 
the world, “The Heart of the Ozarks” at Branson, Missouri, 
where he operated a photographic business until a few years 
ago when he retired. 

Mr. Payne says he has never tasted intoxicating liquor, 
tea, or coffee since he was eleven years old. 



Sam an’ Andy sound am sleepin’ 
’Neaf de windah on de flo’. 

All at once Sam waked up, leaping; 
Yefiin’, “Debbie got us sho! 

See him Andy, fru de windah! 

Wake up, boy and save yo’sef . 
He gwine bu’n us to a cindah — 

Got us, Andy, sho’ as deff !” 

— 188 — 

“See his eyes — dey look lik fiah! 

Wid dem teef, he’ll taih us, Oo — ! 
Looky, Oh! He’s cornin’ nighah! 

Ghost, what am you gwine ter do? 

Mammy, come! De flo’ am sunkin’ — 
vV astes fing ah eveh seen ! 

Save us Lawd ! !” — “Gosh dats a punkin 
Sam, say, dis am Hallowe’en!!’’ 


If Heaven’s fo de white folkses, den hell is fo’ ’em shu’! 
De Lo’d wuz talkin’ to de same, w’en tellin’ of de two. 

He tol’ de folks ef dey is good, to heaven dey could go ; 
But ef dey ain’, why den de place fo’ dem is down below. 

He nevah said a wo’d arbout de colah of de folks, 

Dat’s gwine enjoy de streets o’ gol’; o’ suffah in de smokes. 
He nevah dremp’ dat any one ud draw de colah line, 

O’ try to keep some otha folks f’om gwyin’ wha days gwyin. 

An’ so ah ’lows de Lo’d won’ pay no min’ to what dey say; 
No’ do de t’ings dey asks Him to (ef sech folks evah pray!) 
An ah don’ 'spect dey’s gwine ter be no Jim Crow laws up 

We’ll be as free as we can be, to go jus’ anywhah’ ! 

He said dey wouldn’ be no Jews o’ Gentiles in de place; 
An dat dey isn’t gwine ter be no sech a t’ing or race. 
De souls of folkses comes from God an’ ef de souls goes 

De Lo’d ain’ gwine ter let it be a yallah ! white o’ black. 

— A. B. Payne. 

— 189 — 


She wrote her first poem 
when 13. Her paternal an- 
cestors were ministers, and 
her maternal ancestors 
were doctors. Her mother 
was the granddaughter of 
Dr. Chase, who wrote the 
Doctor Chase Family Book. 

She has also bowed a 
knee to Thespis, having 
both written plays, and 
directed and taken part in 
them. She directed and 
acted a part in a religious 
drama several years ago 
which was judged a win- 
ning play. She has also 
written prize winning short 

Adeline Plawman also loves animals, and enjoys train- 
ing them. She owned “Brilliant Dolly,” the talking dog, so 
widely published. Home: 70 Walnut, Chillicothe, Missouri. 

Poems written by Adeline Armstrong Plawman have 
appeared in: Hobbies, St. Joseph News-Press, the local 
newspapers, Kansas City Poetry Magazine, and Yours For 


Just a’longin’ for my north woods, 
Just a’longin’ for my pines, 
A’longin’ for the northern lights. 
And the whiff of iron mines. 

For the tamerack and the balsam 
And the lakes so cold and clear, 
'For the regions wild and lonely, 
And the trails recrossed by deer. 

for the little brooks that mumble, 
Wnen tne ice melts in me spring, 
And. the wild flowers start a riot, 

As they hear tne rooms sing. 

Just a’ longin’ for my north woods. 
Ana tne tang tnat’s in the air, 
h or tne evergreens ana iern irunds, 
Tnat cast snaaows everywnere; 

Let me dream then of my north woods. 
Where the wild winds sob and moan, 
'nil tne sun-god quells the riot, 

And the sigh — is just my own. 


Take the purple of the twilight 
And the light of setting sun — 

Take the aew from out the violets, 

Ere the morning hours are done; 

Take the mountain’® orchid shadow 
And the blue from smoky spruce. 

With the deeper shades of sapphire 
And a little added puce — 

Take the iris from the peacoek. 

And the azure colors too; 

Now mix them all together, 

There — you have Venetian Blue. 

— Adeline Armstrong Plawman 


Although I was not born in the Ozarks, I love the 
Missouri bills, where I have lived since coming from the 
Rockies of Wyoming when I was eleven years old. 

My parents, Mary Elizabeth McDonald Gates and 
Daniel Percii Gates, were born and lived till after they 
were married in me mountains of Pennsylvania. In 1889 
or 18U0 they went west and homesteaded a ranch a few 
miles from Rock Springs, Wyoming, where I, Martha El- 
len Gates, was horn Novemoer 1, 1891, in a sod house, 
mow they hurried to get that house finished ! I came near 
hemg born in a tent. Perhaps that is why I love the 
outdoors so. 

I am an American from America’s melting pot, as I. 
have the blood of at least five European nations in my veins. 

In 1912, on Easter morning, William David Price, a 
native of the Ozarks, and I were married by an old-time 
hill preacher. We have one daughter and three sons. 

I like solitude. I love the hills, the rocks, trees and lit- 
tle streams, loir to me *''The heavens declare the glory of 
God, the earth shows forth his handiwork.” 


) Today again I look into his room 
\And all in order lays, 

^Closed in his cedar chest, his chifforobe.* 

\ No ties bestrew his desk, 

’ \0, God, watch over him, 
i My sailor son. • f 


Today I washed. I hung my washing out. 

Just one short line, a sheet, some towels, a slip. 

, I do not use the long line any more. 

I used to need it every bit for shirts. 

The blues were Harold's, he liked his collars stiff. 

The tans and brown lightly starched for Bob. 

The whites were Bill’s — sometime a green one though. 

Today is wash day in our neighborhood. 

How few the shirts are up and down the block. 

—Mrs. W. D. Price. 



Miss Beatrice Phillips was born 
in Windyville, Mo., January 26th. 
Received her education in Dallas 
County, Missouri. Makes her home 
in Republic, Missouri, where she is 
employed in a defense plant. She is 
chaplain of the local Art Crafters 
Guild of that city. 


Mrs. J. H. Pursley, a gold star mother, was born 
December 24th, in Polk County, Mo., is married, and the 
mother of eight children. Her oldest son, Homer A. en- 
listed in the Engineers at the beginning of the war and 
was killed in Alaska, two years ago. Another son. Staff 
Sgt. Johnny M. Pursley is now in France. 

Mrs. Pursley has been writing many years, both 
poetry and country correspondence. Her home is Bolivar, 
Missouri, Route 3. 

■ 193 — 


Home, Carthage, Missouri. Educated at Scarritt Col- 
lege, OzarK. College, the University of Missouri, University 
ex' Michigan, National University of Mexico, University of 
Grenoble, and University of Heidelburg. Professor of 
Romance Languages, University of Redlands, Head of Mod- 
ern Languages, Salt Lake High School, two years Professor 
of Modern Languages, Colorado State College of Education 
14 years, Head of Languages, Huron College, 12 years. 

Author of: Everybody Works But Father, a comedy in 
Three Acts, in ten languages. Rosaria, Argentine, 1917. 

Paid in Full, a dramatic sketch in one act, in five lan- 
guages, Boston, 1938. The Devil’s Defeat, a novel in Eng- 
lish, Boston, 1938. Better Stories, Jokes and Toasts, 800 
short stories in English, Boston, 1938. Rosalie and Le- 
Chauffeur, two French comedies, 1920, Boston, Ginn and 
Company. Un Drama Nuevo, Spanish edition of Tamayo 
a Baus famous play. Yonker-On-The-Hudson, 1921, World 
Book Company. El Ultimo de Su Raza, romantic drama 
in Spanish, in five acts, relating the adventures of Francisco 
Villa, Boston, 1923. Acres de Ddamantes, Dr. Conwell’s 
famous lecture translated into Spanish, Boston, 1923. 
Personne Chez Lui, four-act comedy in French, Greeley, 
Colorado, 1918. Die Heldin von Manila, romantic drama in 
four acts in German, Greeley, Colorado, 1918. The Tower 
of Nesle, adaptation of Dumas’ most famous drama, New 
York, 1934, Samuel French. 

La Tierra del Diablo, short story in Spanish, Mexico 
City, 1924. Midnight in Mexico, romantic drama in three 
acts, Mexico City, 1939. A a full length novel, in press, 
1941. Translator for Gordon and Bennett, New York. Pro- 
ducer of plays for Howart-Dorset Stock Company and The 
Message Publishing Co., P. 0. Box 210, Joplin, Mo. 

— 194 — 

Myrtes-Marie Plummer conducts four Creative Writing 
Classes in Kansas City. One of her poems, “Mary and 
Jim,” was seen by a business firm who bought it, illustrat- 
ed it and had punted 10,000 copies. One of her adoles- 
cent age boohs, “Fair Winds,” will be published next 
spring. She has been selected to put some of her poems 
on phonogiaph records to be used in schools. 


You cannot go and search for love with gold, 

And Lope to find it in the market place. 

It is not ware that can be bought and sold, 

For it is free, and yet so dear; the race 
Could not endure without its saving grace: 

The only coin that buys true LOVE is LOVE. 

With horse and cow, and little else but pride. 

Came sturdy Jim with Mary as his bride. 

It was a lovely springtime long ago, 

They started planting crops with plow and hoe, 

And tilled their fields from dewy mom to night. 

Then Jim would do his chores by lantern light, 

While Mary’s tireless hands prepared their meal; 

Their tasks well done, they prayed with fervent zeal. 

In happy interlude, a son was born, 

And they gave thanks to God that joyful mom. 
Unending days slipped into speeding years, 

F tch worked with toil, with laughter and with tears. 
And now around the evening fire at night. 

They listen to war news in hidden fright. 

With pride and faith in their bronzed, stalwart one, 
They reckon time by letters from their son. 

— Myrtes-Marie Plummer. 

— 195 — 

^■^S53S3SSSS«SSS»»«!^^ — 5 


Lida Wilson Pyles was 
born March 25th near 
Eagle Rock, Mo., on a 
farm. She began writing 
poems while in grade 

Tho’ she is the mother 
of three children she still 
finds time to devote to 
motherless children. She is 
known for her kindness 
and readiness to help 
those in unfortunate cir- 
cumstances, and collects 
and remodels clothing for 
her needy ones. That is 
what she calls her pet 

She is a member of the Hill Crofters, The Ozark 
Writers and Artists Guild and the Gasconade Writers 

Her work has appeared in Springfield Daily .News, 
Arkansas Gazette, Grit, and several others. She is listed 
in Who’s Who in Poetry, The 1st Edition of Living Au- 
thors of The Ozarks compiled by Florence McCullough, The 
Poetry Digest, and “The Year Book of Public Opinion” 
by the Paebar Company. Several local radios have read her 


There is a woman who never tells 
An unkind thing she hears, 

She never gossips about the neighbors’ “brcts” 
And calls her own “little dears.” 

She never nags her husband, 

His faults she never finds 

— 196 - 

But there’s a reason for all these good traits, 
She is deaf, dumb and blind! 

There is a man who never drinks, 

Never smokes, swears or chews, 

He never comes into the house 
With mud clinging to his shoes. 

He never plays poker, ’tis said, 

He has been a good man for twenty years, 
His wife knows where he is each night, 

For twenty years he’s been dead! 


We were small-town neighbors, 

The path between your kitchen door and mine 
Was a path into each others hearts 
That made our friendship a thing sublime. 

We shared each others, joys and heart-aches . 

We borrowed sugar or an egg or two 
You used my tea-cups in emergencies 
You gave my dog an extra bone to chew. 

We exchanged favorite recipes, 

You read my books and I read yours, 

You came and helped when I was ill 
No neighbor could do more. 

But now that I have moved away, 

Will the new neighbor find 
My place in your heart, as well, 

As the path between your kitchen door and mine. 

— Lida Wilson Pyles. 


Editor, author, poet, and folklorist, he is cached away in 
the Ozark hills. 

Mr. Rayburn was born in Davis County, Iowa. He re- 
ceived a diploma from Baker University in 1916 and was doing 
his first year of college work when the first W orld W ar broke 
out. He enlisted at K. C. and served two years with the 35th 
Division, one year of the service being in France. After his 
discharge from the Army he taught school in Kansas, Texas 
and Arkansas. 

Mr. Rayburn purchased forty acres of land near 
Kimberline ferry. 

Upon returning from France in 1919, he built “Hide- 
away Lodge,” on his “forty.” In 1924 he was Superin- 
tendent of Schools at Kingston, Arkansas. Here this young 
teacher became interested in folklore. In 1925 he pub- 
lished “Ozark Life Magazine” along with his teaching 
until 1930 when the depression brought him financial 
ruin. The next two years were spent in editing Arcadian 
Magazine at Eminence, Missouri, with C. M. Seaman as 
publisher. In August, 1933, he started Arcadian Life 
Magazine. Rayburn helped organize “The Ozarkians” in 
1927, and wrote the constitution for “The Hillcrofters.” In 
1937, he began promoting an annual “Arcadian Poets” 
Fair” at Caddo Gap. The 1940 meeting was held at Hot 
Springs National Park and resulted in the organization 
of “The Arcadian Guild of Creative Workers.” Mr. Ray- 
burn was elected president of this guild. 

Otto Rayburn has chosen Ozarkian folklore as his 
special field and has become somewhat of an authority 
upon the subject. His “Ozark Country,” is one of the 
bo,oks of the American Folkways Series, sponsored by 
Erskine Caldwell and published by Dwell, Sloan and Pierce, 
New York. Other books by this author are : “The Inward 
Real,” (poetry), 1927, “Dream Dust,” (poetry and prose 
sketches) 1934, and “Rayburn’s Roadside Chat,” (Arcad- 
ian Lore and Logic), 1939. 

Mr. Rayburn married Lutie Beatrice Day at Dallas, 
Texas, 1925. They have two children. The Rayburns live 
at Lonsdale, Arkansas. 

— 198 — 


I am in love with the music of earth 

With the dirge of death and the sounds of birth 

With the minstrelog of life in the call, 

Of the swish of bats from a cavern’s wall. 

With the twang of storm or the tweedledee 
Of a vagrant breeze in pastorale. 

Like an Angel’s dream is the card’s worth 
If the piper pipes from the lyric earth. 

I am in love with the colors that greet 
The nomadic life with its itching feet; 

With flavors of soil and the smell of the sea 
That salts its way through an eternity. 

With fragrant cedar and redolent rose. 

And the thousand things that delight the nose. 
Attar of roses or muscadine scent. 

They always creep into a Gypsy’s tent. 

I am in love with the color of things; 

With the flash of red in cardinal’s wings ; 
With the green in pine and the friendly hue 
Of a sky dressed up in a homespun blue. 

With the blazing gold of the summer sun, 

And the purple shades when the shuttle’s done. 
In spectrums of nature, shadows have wings 
That glow with the tints of beautiful things. 

— Otto Ernest [Rayburn. 

199 — 


In South-East Missouri 
there is a mite of a farm- 
ing community called Hazel 
Run. . . . and here I was 

July 13, 1910, to be 
oxacL As my memory 
became sharpened to the 
world about, it was of 
cherry and plum trees be- 
decked in white against a 
clear blue sky, of deep rut- 
ted red clay roads, of Boil- 
ing spring in the hollow 
whose sand bottom danced 
to my delight, of the 
birds, of the flowers. Then 
■as skies would darken we 
ran from the berry patch 
into the frame house wnose timbers shivered at the rolling 
thunder and we were scared like animals peeping out into 
the dark. 

That is by way of recalling my early childhood. 

Having began at 12 to write down my thoughts I 
have kept steady at it and in 1934-35 I published a folk 
magazine “The Grape-Vine Telegram” which was an or- 
gan for The Ozark Research Society of which I was di- 
rector. We took camping expeditions into that rugged 
St. Francois mountain region collecting data and 
photographs. My work has been published in most all the 
Ozark magazines, including all the St. Louis papers, in 
Golden Book magazine and in many poetry anthologies. 

I have never married, 4-F army classification and have 
defective hearing. That just about sums up my personal 

Of unpublished stories with Ozark background I have 
these: '“A Backwoods He r o.” “ T he Day It Snowed,” “The 
Browns Get A Cow,” ’“The Soughing Cedars,” “That 

— 200 — 

Chat Road Woman”. 

There are a great number of poems in my collection, 
sune uzarKian as the following: 


Two nights, now. 

The hill over there has been shooting fireworks 
ic, somehow, 

(jives life to the deadening quiet of fore winter. 

Lapping flames! 

They bite at a shuddering stand of cedars ; 

Snapping flames! 

Creeping fearless soldiers marching along the front. 
Warm blazes, 

From whence did they come — from some other distant ridge 
Mad Crazes 

To quinch their thirst with dried needles of the cedars. 

— L. L. Richardson 

- 201 - 


Bertha Mae Rinck (nee 
Fuller) was born at Newburg, 
Missouri, December 14tli. 

Being left motherless at 
three months of age, she was 
reared by her grandparents, 
who during her early years 
lived on a farm which was 
one of the pioneer homes of 
Missouri. Her schooling was 
completed at Rolla, Missouri, 
where soon after she was 
married to Walter Sidney 
Rinck, and since then her 
home has been in the town 
of her birth, Newburg, Mo. 


Moon light like a silver flood, 

With shadows like a stain; 

Golden days when sunbeams dense, 
Dirowzy hours of rain. 

Rain crows flying in the dusk 
Soar, and dip, and boom — 

Don’t you wish the day was longer 
When it’s June. 

Wild strawberries everywhere, 

If you wish to dine; 

Humming birds are happy 
In the honeysuckle vine. 

Wild roses nodding as you pass — 
All the world in tune — 

Doesn’t the heart inside you sing 
When it’s June? 

— 202 — 

Hollyhocks like stately ladies 
Standing in a row, 

Flaunting pink, and red, and yellow, 
With white ones pure as snow. 

Do you hear a buzz of gossip 
As you stroll along? 

Bumble bee is reaping honey 
With his velvet jacket on. 

And you get that lazy feeling. 

And you long to find a nook, 

Down beside some stream or river, 
Where the willows bend to look. 

And you just care for nothing. 
Morning, night, or noon. 

Only to go afishing, 

When it’s June. 

Bob white calling in the wheat field 
With a plaintive little note. 

Cat bird warbling in the treetop — 

Seems as tho’ he’d burst his throat. 

Daisies white in every meadow, 

Clover all in bloom — 

Don’t you think Missouri’s heaven 
When it’s June? 

— Bertha Mae Kinck. 


Wife of Eooker Hall Rucker, Sr. Born in Rolla. Mar- 
ried in Rolla. Both sons born in Rolla. Still living in 


SitUng' on the porch sleepily sewing. 
Lazily thinking, dreamily watching. 
The steam quietly rising 
From the tranquil Gasconade. 
Suddenly a gust of wind — 

Clouds slowly gathering. 

Look! down the weedy road 
Gliding quickly, head erect, 

Fangs out quivering, 

Weaving body from side to side 
Goes a glittering blue-race. 

Now a wood-pecker’s tap! tap! 

The snake stopping, listening, 
Disappearing through the grass 
By the poison-ivy twined tree. 

Again the wood-pecker's tap! tap! tap 
As though calling him there. 

A chipmunk scampers by 
Causing Dusty’s sharp bark 
Following his quick look. 

If I were a Burgess 
I could write a child’s book. 

The day before: 

I make my New Year’s resolutions. 

The day after: 

And find them hallucinations. 

— Margaret Southgate Rucker. 
— 204 — 


* 205 - 


Born at Poplar Bluff, Missouri, March 23, 1906. Son 
of Rose Marie and James Saracini, had four brothers and 
three sisters. Graduate of Poplar Bluff High School, and 
attended . University of Alabama. Majored in music and 
arts, did concert work as a violinist, orchestral conductor, 
and Teacher of Music. Gave the first full hour music re- 
cital over Radio Station KSD (the largest in the Midwest) 
in summer of 1922 at age of 16. Started writing poems 
and music as a hobby, and made it a profession. Has com- 
posed over 150 songs (words and music) ; numerous 
poems, short stories, literary articles, and now working 
on his first book-length story. His best known published 
songs are: “Loan Me Your Heart,” “God Bless Our Sol- 
diers”, “Happy Birthday Mother,” “Hearts For Sale,” 
“We’ll Shout Hallelujah,” (When it’s over everywhere), 
“Sweetheart of Heaven,” “The Spirit of Freedom,” “It 
Was Like Christmas Morning.” His best known poems are: 
“To My Son,” “Stars of Heaven,” “Another Day,” "There 
Come A Friend,” and “We’ll Carry Through.” For recrea- 


tion, Mr. Saracini likes movies, clean vaudeville, hiking, 
and air indoor sporting events; loves adventure; will dis- 
regard food, sleep or business to hear good folk-lore mu- 
sic and poetry over the radio. He does not imitate others 
in his works. His innermost desire: To enlighten the ways 
and hearts cf the tired and weary, and to make the world 
a much better place to live in, than it has been in the 
past. He never fails to thank God for his every effort and 
accomplishment. Hopes to die young. Now resides at 
5009a Delmar Boulevard, St. Louis, Mo. 


I had a dream last night, 

Oh, the sun was shining bright, 

Ev’rywhere ev’ryone was so happy, 

Not a tear drop was in sight, 

Storm clouds had scattered completely, 

The skies were so blue up above, 

The world seemed so peaceful and dreamy, 
Ev’rywhere hearts were filled with love: 

1st Chorus. 

It was like Christmas morning, 

The happiest day of my life, 

And good will towards men, 

Peace on earth reigned again. 

No sorrow, no heartaches, no strife, 

Snowflakes dropped down from Heaven, 

The earth was all silvery and white, 

Oh, it was like Christmas morning, 

Once again ev’rything seemed all right. 

2nd Chorus. 

It was like Christmas morning, 

A picture I just can’t describe, 

A new world was born 

Like the Christ Child that morn, 

Protected by Heaven’s own light, 

Thus we must take fair warning. 

Live closer than ever before. 

For when it’s like Christmas morning, 

There’ll be peace on earth forever more. 

—Words and Music by Joe A. Saracini. 

- 207 — 


I am a native Missourian from 
Kansas City, where I learned to read 
and print before entering kinder- 
garten. My folks moved to Hickman 
Mills, where I graduated in 1934. 

That year I attained my first literary 
success — winning the essay contest 
held by the United Daughters of the 
Confederacy on the subject: “Sidney 
Lanier: Poet and Musician.” It was 
my biggest thrill, especially when I 
received a check for $15.00, the first 
prize award! 

My first attempt in this direction met with unexpected 
returns. I wrote some Ozark poems (my first ones) and 
submitted them for the 1939 annual Poet Laureate of 
Ozarkland contest conducted by radio stations KWTO- 
KGBX. I won. Emboldened by this success/ I sent some 
Ozarks poems and observations to “Missouri Notes” of the 
Kansas City Times. I was still rather timid about it, and 
if my work had then been rejected, I would probably have 
retired into my shell. But my writings were printed, and 
from then on I considered myself launched on a new career. 
In 1940, I again entered the “Poet Laureate” contest and 
retained my title and won another silver loving cup like 
my first one. 

The anthologies discovered me, eventually. “The Hill- 
dwellers,” a poem originally printed in the Eugene 
(Oregon) Daily News, appeared in the Davis Anthology of 
Newspaper Verse for 1940. “Heart of the World” is accept- 
ed for American Sonnets and Lyrics, 1941 (Artcraft.) 
“Ozark Peace,” 1939 contest winner, will be in Who’s Who 
In Poetry in America, 1941. We joined my contemporaries 
in the Ozark Writers’ - Artists’ Guild and the Hillcrofters. 
My humble efforts have been noticed and praised by other 
newspapers, including the New York Sun. 


Robed in the silence of the peaceful night, 

The hills stand in Jehovah’s secret place ; 


The moon, a shining taper, spills her light 

And spreads in sylvan naves the altar-lace. 

The wine of Autumn scents the still, sweet air; 

The bread of harvest on earth’s table waits. 

The fallen leaves stir, as if whispered prayer 

Breathes from the sod to rise to Heaven’s gates. 
Thus Nature joins in holy sacrament, 

Remembering her great Creator’s love; 

As though for mankind’s sins she would repent. 

She oilers Beauty’s at-one-ment above. 

And who am I, perplexed by human ways. 

To stand aloof while ah creation prays? 

Printed: The Kansas City Star, “Missouri Notes,” 

Reprint: Springfield Morning News, 

On crimson-altared hills where Beauty kneels 
And worships her Creator, I have stood 
And with all heaven communed. In field and wood 
And rich brown aisles where friendship softly steals 
With willing hand outstretched in clasp that seals 
All hearts alike in common brotherhood, 

The wealth of God’s own harvest-gold of good 
Outpours in splendor that His love reveals. 

Here in His temple clamor dies away. 

The sparkling air, the chanting rill, the pines 
That hold life’s secret, bid all strivings cease. 
From lands that yield to blind confusion’s sway, 

My homing feet have fled all grim confines. 

And in the Ozark hills my heart knows peace. 

— Elizabeth D. Schumann. 

(Prize winning poem, 1939 "Poet Laureate of Ozarkland” 
Title Contest, KGBX-KWTO, Springfield Radio Stations) 
Published: The Kansas City Times, (Star), October, 
1940. New Era News, (Springfield), February, 1940, and 
The Backlog (Des Moines), February, 1940. 

— 209 - 


Born and reared in Mis- 
souri, and always returned to 
Missouri, says she expects to 
end her days here. Writes 
poetry because she loves the 
rhythm of metered words, 
and has written about 700 
poems, many articles, short 
stories" and children’s stor- 

She is president of the 
Chillicothe Scribblers Club 
and active in encouraging 
more and better writing. 
Her home is in Chillicothe, 
Mo., where she and her hus- 
band have a greenhouse. 


Just an old log beside the stream, 

But my heart lifts up and sings, 

For many a happy memory 
Around this old log clings. 

In childhood days I wandered here 
With heart untouched by care; 

I sat upon this same old log 
That we see lying here. 

My father’s axe the great tree felled, 

On which to bridge the stream 

Whose course has changed, now the old log 

Lies useless as a dream. 

And while I stand beside it now 
Sweet memories fill my heart. 

I cannot see, for blinding tears 
Will from my eyelids start. 

— 210 — 


Sixty years! Can it really be 

I have passed the milestones, one by one, 

And climbed the hill where the shadows lie 
Slanting down toward the setting sun? 

Sixty beautiful years they have been 
Filled with colors of varied woof. 

The light, the dark, the rose and gray 
Have blended together, shadow-proof. 

As I glance over the loom of life, 

On which my weaving has been done, 

Some somber threads stand our distinct 
Above the shades of the setting sun. 

And I wonder, could I weave again 

The warp and woof, would I change the thread 

And use only colors gay and bright 
Where the dark ones lie instead? 

— Eva Weaver Sefton. 

— 211 — 


Anna Farris Selvy was 
born at Ash Grove, Mo., 

November 7, 1875, the 

daughter of John C. Del- 
zel and Lavina E. Kelly 
Delzell. Had only the 
schooling of the country 
schools until her son was 
old enough to attend 
school — ; and at that time 
she went through the eight 
grades with him by study- 
ing at nights with him. 

Has lived most of the years 
in Missouri. 

At present is living at 
Reeds, Mo., on a farm 
where she has been fight- 
ing a stroke of paralysis 
from which she has prac- 

tSove^andTaising fine roses is her “Hobby.” She was the 
winner in the first Poetry Contest put on by the Ozark 
Playground Association in 1932, winning with a poem en- 
titled “The Seasons.” She has had poems published m 
various magazines. During the past year she has com- 
pleted a book of 50,000 words, and hopes to get the book 
published soon. 


The gypsy sumac by the road, 

Has set her campfires burning; 

The weary bee all laden down, 

Unto his hive is turning. 

The fruit and grain are gathered in, 
From fields where late we sought them, 
And now there come to greet us, 

The gay and festive Autumn. 

— 212 — 

I can hear the blue- jay’s chatter, 

As he flits from tree to tree — 

And another voice I hear, 

’Tis the Ozarks calling- me. 

When once you’ve talked with Nature, 

And hear her whispered story. 

When once you’ve stood and viewed, 

Their rich autumnal glory; 

When once you’ve walked these mystic hills. 
Thru Autumn’s sun a-shining 
Your heart becomes a captive — 

And each year begins a-pining 

When birds fly South, and breezes cool, 

And golden leaves a-falling — 

And you know well, the reason why. 

It’s the Ozarks calling, calling. 

Today the sun is shining, 

Thru rainbow colored trees 
The scent of ripening apples 
Floats in on every breeze; 

In fancy I can see the streams 
And, Oh, how I’m a-wishing 
That you and I were there today. 

Just busy with our fishing. 

Oh, the weary miles between us. 

And at times my tears a-falling 
For I am sure we both can hear, 

Those dear old Ozarks calling. 

(To my niece, Neta Denny of Detroit, Mich.) 

— Anna Selvy. 



— 213 — 

Helen Sherrell was born 
in St. Louis, Missouri, May- 
10, 1904. From childhood 
she haunted the Public Li- 
brary where she lived in a 
land of dreams. 

She married Virgil 
Sherrell of Arlington, Mis- 
souri. They ' have three 
children. Mr. Sherrell died 
December 13, 1943. 

Her chief hobby is the 
study and planning of 
homes, a home to her, be- 
ing a colorful poem. Altho 
she says she finds her 
pleasure in expression of 
thought in written words. 
I thank God for my warm home; For my children 
going to school in freedom and safety; The clothes danc- 
ing merrily on the line in the wind; For the aeroplane 
overhead of which I have no fear as it is the plane of an 
American; For the sun, moon, and stars; For the harmony 
and love, food and raiment I am thankful; For the knowl- 
edge and assurance that even though war lords are raging 
at each other, peace will come and right will win out. 
In my thankfulness I pray that soon this peace will come; 

My house is small, my living simple, yet how 
wealthy I am in having all I have — love, peace, freedom! 
What greater things can we acquire ? They are ours to en- 
joy in this land of democracy worked for, fought for, died 
for by our pioneer fathers who let God use them for future 
generations. May we draw near each other in thankful- 
m ss and work together, prayerfully, unitedly, unselfishly 
to keep our nation a free and glorious land and future for 
our children who will reap the results of our present ac- 
tions and efforts. 

— 214 — 


Born to Mr. and Mrs. James L. Switzer in Jewel Coun- 
ty, Kansas, who were early pioneers. Came to Missouri 
about 1900, living on a farm until he was about 16 years 
of age. His first employment was m a printing shop 
where he pulled an old Washington hand press. 

In 1902 he started the newspaper, “The Graphic Re- 
view” in Webb City, Missouri, which he still publishes 
each week. He also publishes the Webb City Leader. He 
edits tne column, "The Haid Egg,” since 1932 which has 
much interesting information and many chuckles. Mr. 
Switzer also writes poetry and short stories which have 
appeared in many poetry journals and magazines. 

Mr. Switzer married Miss Emily Hyatt. Their home 
is in Webb City. 


It all started because Mrs. Corn made a senseless re- 
mark to the effect that Mrs. Canteloupe did when she 
was married, and that she was awfully wrinkled for one 
so young; but Mrs. C. came right back at Mrs. Corn by 
saying that at least she was not silly enough to wear silk 
on her ears. All the balance of the neighbors began to 
take sides and talk about each other. 

Mrs. Succotash started to take sides with Mrs. Corn 
but Mrs. Radish turned red in the face and said if she 
didn’t mind her peas and qqqqs Mrs. Cabbage would 
squash her head, and furthermore that she didn’t carrot 
all if she did. Mrs. Rhubarb was too sharp to be dirawn 
into the argument, for she knew Mrs. Onion was too 
strong for her while Miss Tomato was blushing and look- 
ing like she was ashamed of the whole affair. 

The two young Potatoes (Sweetie and Irish) were 
over in a corner crying their eyes out. “We want to get 
married,” they said, “but, because we have the same 
name, our parents won’t lettuce.” 

Old Man Asaragus, who overlooked the entire affair, 
went away scratching his bean. “The way these women 
carry on beets me,” he said. “You never know what will 
turnip next.” 

— 215 — 

Brasilia Alice Cox Smith was born in Chillicothe, Mo., 
March 1, 1867. She moved with her parents, Benjamin F. 
and Elizabeth Cox, when a small child to a farm near 
Gallatin. Here she grew up and taught school for sev- 
eral years. She was married to George W. Smith on 
March 19, 1891. After living in Gallatin, Trenton, and St. 
Joseph, Missouri, for many years, Mrs. Smith returned 
with her husband to Chillicothe, where she still lives. 

Writing poetry is a sideline' with Mrs. Smith. Some 
of her poems have been published in local papers; others 
have been written and sent to friends, of whom she hag 
many. Besides writing poetry her hobbies are scrap-books 
and flowers. She used to piece quilts and make rags until 
failing eyesight made her give up this work. 


'“Backward, turn backward, 0 time in your flight” 

And give me the strength to enter this fight! 

My country’s at war and I sit here at ease 

While boys are fighting and dying far over the seas. 

I am seventy-six and can scarcely hear or see, 

But should like to do something to speed victory. 

I can’t knit, I can’t sew, nor manage a plane, 

So turn backward, time — make me young again. 

I can’t be a W.A.A.C., a Spar, or a W.A.Y.E. 

And thereby do something my country to save. 

I can’t help bomb Tokyo, or Berlin 

If I could I am ready now to begin. 

But perhaps there is something I can do, after all — 

Some way in which I can answer our country’s call. 
I can pray and have faith in God’s saving power. 

In this, our dear country’s most trying hour. 

I can accept without murmur, my rationing card 

Which gives me less butter, less bacon and lard; 

I can do with less clothes, and less kitchen scraps 
In order to help rout the Germans and Japs. 

- 216 ^- 

I can stand by the President — our Commander-in-chief. 

To me that’s not difficult since ’tis my belief 
That he is the wisest and best in the land, 

Well able and fitted to be in command. 

I can have faith in cur leaders abroad and at home 

And believe through their guidance sweet victory 
will come. 

Perhaps I can encourage some doubting friend 

To believe we will conquer, through God, in the end. 

And also to believe that some happy day 

All dark clouds of war will be driven away, 

And the white dove of peace will come to remain, 

And joy and gladness bless the whole world again. 


A neighbor is one who understands 
And helps you in time of need, 

Hoping to brighten life’s pathway 

By kindly word and generous deed. 

Perhaps something nice from the garden, 

A flakey pie, or a slice of cake, 

A ride in your car — if you have one — 
And other deeds for a neighbor’s sake. 

Sometimes they say it with flowers. 
Sometimes with a friendly call. 

When sickness or sorrow comes your way 
They are there to answer your call. 

— Mrs. George Smith. 


Born September 15, 1915, near Mangum, Oklahoma, 
Richard Leon Spain has spent most of his life in the Oz- 
arks of Northwest Arkansas. His efforts at self-expres- 
sion through the medium of poetry began at the age of 12 
and brought him encouraging recognition almost imme- 

Since then his poems have been published in most of the 
worthwhile poetry magazines and in numerous periodicals, 
including The Commonwealth, Household Magazine, New 
York Times, Oregonian, etc. Many of them have been 
widely reprinted in newspaper poetry columns, including 
such well-known ones as “A Week of Verse” (New York 
Herald-Tiribune) ; and in some of the better anthologies. 

His poems have been broadcast on radio poetry pro- 
grams by Elmo Russ, Ted Malone and others; and have 
won awards and gratifying approbation in a number of 
poetry competitions. He won first prize in the Ozark 
Playgrounds Association’s annual Flaming Fall Revue 
poetry contests four times uring the last seven years 
prior to their suspension because of the war. 

Spain’s first collection of poems, a brochure entitled 
“Travelers of the Night,” appeared in 1938 under the im- 
print of Bar Di Press, Siloam Springs, Ark; and was fol- 
lowed in 1942 by his first book, “Rock and Cumulus,” 
published in New York City by the League to Support 
Poetry. Concerning this book a reviewer writing in The 
Winged Word said, in part: 

'“It is a happy experience to come upon work so honest 
and wholesome. These poems * * * have an integrity of 
style that is not cheapened by striving for effect. * * * 
Among the best are those that tell of the Ozark country 
and its people who ‘walked uphill beyond each day’s de- 
feat.’ Through all runs as an undertone the calm of a 
countryside that endures storms and quietly repairs their 

. He has also written book reviews and . articles on a 
variety of subjects. An enthusiastic life-long interest in 
gardening in all its phases has culminated in his success- 
ful entry into the field of horticultural writing. His 

— 218 — 

“Arkansas Garden Forum” is a popular weekly feature of 
the Arkansas Gazette (Little Rock). He illustrates all his 
garden articles with original drawings which have at- 
tracted much favorable attention. 


You are the dawn against my window-glass 
After the night that held so much of pain; 

You are the quiet splendor of new grass 
Scattered with sun and daisies after rain. 

You are the understanding heart among 
The many hearts that will not comprehend; 

The clear, unshadowed eyes ; the honest tongue 
Among the hordes that perjure and pretend. 

Throughout my days an aura of delight, 

You live in all things beautiful and free 
That conquer storm or cold or friendless night, 
Your counterpart in all wherein I see 
The clean and shining flag of hope unfurled 
Above the desolation of the world. 

— Richard Leon Spain. 

(Published in New York Times and “Rock' and Cumulus” 
Broadcast on Moon River Program, WLW, Cincinnati) 


Born March 13, 1884, on a farm in the Bluff District 
near Rolla, the daughter of pioneer parents, the Wilsons 
and Fullers. Her mother was a direct descendant of the 
Fuller who came over on the Mayflower. The Fuller fam- 
ily come to Missouri in 1864 from New York, the Wilsons 
from Kentucky. 

She received her education in the schools of Phelps 
County. She says, “I was the eldest of a family of six 
children, and in those days it was customary for the oldest 
girl to remain home to help mother at least one day a 
week, either doing the wash, or tending the baby while 
mother djd it. So of course, learning was obtained under 
difficulties; then, too, as soon as I was old enough to 
“work out” I began working. 

Mrs. Stogsdill has three sons in the armed forces. 
She and her husband live on their farm near Rolla. 


I caught the cry of Wild Geese 
As they came flying over, 

Forming a “V” for victory — 

0, when the war is over and we can form a line 
From east to west, from north to south 
And shout the victory cry ! 

Not victory for earthly gain, 

Nor worldly fame nor valor, 

But peace for the world-wide domain 
Now and forever after. 


Just a little bit of loving 
As we go along life’s ways, 
Laugh about it if you want to, 
But you bet your life it pays; 

Just a little bit of thinking 
Of the ones you love; to tell, 

Of your story of inner tenderness — - 
It will surely pay you well. 

Just a little bit of 'kidding/ 

Just a little mite of cheer, 

Don’t care if it does seem foolish, 

Sort o’ helps while you are here, 

Helps the heart when you are lonely, 

When you feel so sad and blue, 

Helps you just to know that someone 
Surely cares and thinks of you. 

Just a little bit of 'taffy/ 

Just a little word of praise, 

But it makes the world seem brighter, 
Makes you know that goodness pays; 

Pays to know when life is passing 
That you gave your flowers while here, 
Gave to hearts a bit of sunshine, 

Passed along your load of cheer. 

— Daisy E. Stogsdill. 

— 221 - 


I, Stella Stroecker, col- 
umnist writer and writer 
of short stories and verse, 
was born on a farm near 
Springfield, Mo. I am the 
youngest daughter of Cal- 
vin Maples and his wife, 
Mary Maples, both deceas- 
ed. I attended elementary 
school in the country until 
I was 13 years old, at 
which time I became a stu- 
dent at Marionville High 
School. I began writing 
at the age of ten and wrote 

the Boaz news for a 

weekly paper at Billings Mo. Later contributed Ozark 
news to Crane, Missouri, paper. In 1931 Zerse Brothers 
published a poem entitled '‘Civilization,” and a song. In 
1934 and 1935 they likewise published several biography 
booklets which I wrote. Within the past five years I have 
studied under the guidance of the Hoosier Institute of 

Chicago and the Comfort Writers Service of St. Louis, Mo. 
In early youth I married Frank Stroecker, who is now de- 
ceased. A son and daughter was born of this union who 
have been and are a solace to me. I hold in great esteem 
the memory of my deceased friend, Mrs. Blanche Ward, 
who encouraged me in my writings. 


I was happy when the dawn of day had come, 
Not knowing that soon I would be alone. 

In the morning hours my grief was there, 
Lively, though partially akin to anxious care. 
At noon I stood alone and wept; 

Tears of anguish my memory had kept. 

When the shadows of eve gathered near 
I lister ed for the midnight gong without fear. 

- 222 — 


Paul R. Stevick was born April 23, 1888, at Strongs- 
ville, Ohio, to Frank D. and Rose May Nicholson Stevick. 
He graduated from Southwest College, Boston University 
and State University cf Iowa (Ph. D.) . 

He was married to Elizabeth Alma Redmond on July 
14, 1920. They have two sons. 

He has been published in International Journal of 
Religious Education, and Voice of Nature. He published 
Principles of Religious Education with E. E. Emmel. Suc- 
cess in Study for Freshmen appeared in the Morningside 
College revised edition for 1925. 

Many other of his works have appeared in worthwhile 
magazines and anthologies. 

Rev. Stevick is pastor of the “Little Rock Church,” 
Chitwood, Missouri. He also is an instructor of Guidance 
Philosophy, and Sociology in the Joplin Junior College, 
Joplin, Missouri. He lives at Joplin, Mo. 


Holy Jesus, Savior, thou 
Art among us while we bow, 

Praying with a contrite heart. 

Send new grace to us impart. 

Thou whose broken body proved, 

Thou hast all men dearly loved, 

While this bread we eat may we 
Feed in spirit upon Thee. 

Thou who for our sins has bled, 

Thou whose blood for all was shed, 

While we drink this cup may we 
Find our lives renewed to Thee. 

Rev. Paul R. Stevick. 

- 223 — 


Adolph B. Suess — Editorial and feature writer, book 
reviewer, author, editor, poet, free-lance writer and 
friend. For many years edited a magazine for Catholic 
Girls. Author of booklet, “The Romantic Story of Ca- 
hokia, Illinois,” which is a forerunner of a larger book. 

The following trilogy of sonnets are a beautiful tribute 
to our Ozarks from the pen of Mr. Suess. 


Come fair Aurora, and with finger deft, 
Flush cirrus clouds with roseate hues ; 
That seeing morn in robes of splendor, 
The songsters of the copse may 
Thrill their ecstacies again. 

Repeat the wondrous theme, 

That fashioned ’oft, through centuries, 
The shimmering glory which now lies, 

On clustered leaves, and swaying fronds! 
With fairy fingers of the goddess morn, 
Spray aureole tints and visions fair, 

And clothe in beauty hills and vales, 

An endless source of pristine glory! 

It’s Morning in the Ozarks. 


Rise, oh, Sun ! To thy zenith wend thy way, 

And in effulgence spread the glorious light, 

That dawning first was softest tint of rose, 

Now shines resplendent; a golden coronet! 

Rise, oh, Sun! Crown the day’s great meridial height, 
And fill the vales and forest glades with light ; 

That flushing all in gorgeous colors, 

The Earth’s fair wonders may emprise, 

It’s High Noon in the Ozarks. 

And to the questioning eye its visions splendid 
Unfold, when Noon reigns in the skies! 

— 224 — 


Gome night ! and with your darkling shadows 
Fill all the glades and hollows ’round about; 

’Till purpling mist enfolds the crags 
And mountain heights, that rise 
Above the level of the seas! 

Twilight descends and ope’s the chambers 
Of the stars’ vast glittering course; 

Gleaming soft, the moon’s faint rays appear 
Reflected in yonder sylvan stream! 

And fringe of incarnidated clouds 
Drifts slowly by . . . silence breeds 
Upon the fallow fields, whilst. 

In the distant wood, the hoot-owl 
Sounds his melancholy note! 

Night leigns in the Ozarks. 

— Adolph B. Suess. 

The above prose-poems, a trilogy of poems, were writ- 
ten by Adolph B. Suess, editorial and feature writer, 
many years ago, while entranced with the beauties of the 
Ozarkian hills. It was at Salem, Missouri, in October, 
that he wrote them. 

— 225 — 


Mrs. Emma Summers, 
poet, song writer, musician 
and composer, born near 
Cape Girardeau, Mo. Has 
many compositions and 
songs to her credit, one out- 
standing published song 
entitled “The Tulips Are 
Missing in Holland,” which 
brought the written com- 
mendation of Her Maiesty, 
Wilhelmina, Queen of the 
Netherlands, also Mirs. 
Forrest C. Donnell, wife of 
Missouri’s Governor, and of 
Mrs. Stuart Godfrey, who 
in chairman of music for 
the service with headquar- 
ters in Washington, D. C. 
Her home is 610 S. Benton St., Cape Girardeau, Mo. 


Come, Great White Spirit from Thine abode, 

Lift up the fallen, lighten the load. 

We do not merit seeing Thy face, 

Still, Great White Spirit, come with Thy grace! 
Once Thou hast said, yea, Thou dost recall, 

For just one righteous Thou wouldst save all; 

Oh, Great White Spirit, can it be 

That all Thy children have turned from Thee? 

Melt into love this cauldron of hate! 

Comfort the sorrow, wild pain abate — 

Thou, too, hast known deep sorrow and pain, 
Death on the cross — the rabble’s shame. 

Quiet the storm on land, sky and sea. 

As Thou once stilled the far Gallilee. 

Come, Great White Spirit, from Thine abode, 

Pity Thy children, lighten the load! 

— 226 — 

THE HAWTHORN — State Flower of Missouri 

Growing in the woods away 
Near some quiet leafy bower — , 

For the children born in May, 

Long you’ve been the “chosen” flower. 

While you, hidden in the wood, 

With the brown quail and her brood, 

Came Missouri .... Indian Mother, 

Brushed aside the copse and cover, 

Found you . . . called: “My native child! 

“Born when here the deer ran wild”! 

Crowned you: “Symbol of the State,” 

Queen of all her beauteous flowers! 

Each, in turn, now abdicate 
In your favor . . . you are ours! 

They can be your maids in waiting, 

Beauty bows to native rating — • 

Hawthorn, on Missouri’s throne. 

We salute you: Chosen One. 

— Mrs. Emma Summers. 

(This poem was written by Mrs. Summers when the 
River Hills Garden Club and the Girl Scouts planted 43 
Hawthorn bushes along Outer Drive about the middle of 
March, 1941. There was quite a ceremony as "the Haw- 
thorn is the Missouri State Flower — and this poem was 
read at that time, and was also published in The Southeast 

— 227 — * 


Born in Aurora, Missouri, where she attended high 
school, finishing high school at Aurora with the class of 
’34. The following year tragedy visited the Taylor home, 
her mother losing her eyesight. Miss Taylor then began 
her mission of love and loyalty. For seven years she min- 
istered to her mother and kept house for her parents, 
working meanwhile at odd jobs as time from her home du- 
ties permitted, doing manuscript typing and tiling. In 
speaking of those days, Miss Taylor says: '“Those were 
the lean years ; I am truly a product of the depression, 
with respect for money and its buying power.” When 
the war is over Miss Taylor plans to take up the loose 
threads of her writing career in her homeland hills. Her 
greatest service, in the eyes of her friends, however, lies 
in the beautiful life of sacrifice she has lived since her 
mother’s affliction. 


When things go wrong and days are blue, 

It helps so much to think of YOU. 

Your great big heart and dear sweet smile 
Help me to know life’s still worthwhile. 

Your faith in God, in all things good, 

Makes me to feel all ills withstood. 

It’s friends like you along the way 
That makes me say — “Life is good today.” 


To be with you was Heaven, I really must admit, 

To, hear you laugh, and sing, and say, 

“Oh Sweet, this must be it!” 

But it makes me sad when I think of this . . . 

You ended it all with just a kiss. 

With you, my dear, I was just a fad . . . 

But I loved you, and that was sad! 


Sometimes it certainly seems to me 
That if this is all there is to be, 

I might as well be matter-of-fact 

And forget about you and our little pact,! 

—Maxine Taylor. 



Was born in North Missouri. He received his start in 
education, by the help and encouragement of a friendly 
doctor who loaned him books — Goldsmith, Johnson, Addi- 
son, Plutarch’s Lives, Macaulay, Bancroft. The educa- 
tional process was hastened, no doubt, by the fact that 
his father gave him a choice of study and reading by a 
warm fire or of chopping wood to keep the home fires 

His life has been active. Like Pope, he thinks the 
proper study of mankind is man, so his studies run 
somewhat to philosophy. He is a university graduate, but 
his college life was brief. 

He has taught in universities and colleges, claiming 
over three thousand teachers as students. He has fifty 
years of teaching to his credit, with senators and gover- 
nors as students — with a' few politicians and other rack- 
eteers thrown in. As a side line he has owned a daily pa- 
per and three weeklies. 

As a writer he has accumulated enough rejections to 
paper his study up in the Ozarks, but editors have accept- 
ed a few, his earliest being “The White Savage,” and 
some from the Chicago Tribune. Later he wrote articles 
for the Denver Post, The Wichita Beacon and the Kansas 
City Star. 

At present he has a Western of eighty thousand 
words that may be published this summer after another 
rewrite. Like the immortal Cicero he likes to "castigate” 
his work ten times to perfect accuracy, for he says he 
owes much to his readers, and he boasts that he has never 
written a word for which he would be ashamed. 

He freely admits his faults — he is poor at character- 
ization, and he cannot exaggerate. 

Mr. Thompson is an Ozark writer, and he believes in 
“them thar hills” where a man is a man. You will hear 
more of him. Hiis next effort will be “The Virgin and the 
Dragon”; and a second Western is gestating. 

Bom in St. Louis, Mo., January 4th, to Mr. and Mrs. J. 
H. Terry. Educated Smith Academy, Rugby Academy, 
St. Louis ; Gallandet College, (for the deaf) , Washington, 
D. C. Employment Civil Service, real estate and printing. 
Lost his hearing in his 11th year. Wrote verse, stories 
and three books (unpublished) during boyhood. Pub- 
lished '“A Tale of Normandie and Other Poems” in 1898. 
Married. Miss Alice Tucker, also deaf, and a writer, 
lived near Marionville, Mo., moved to Carthage, Mo., and 
then to Santa Monica, California, in 1910 where he wrote 
his successful book, “A Voice from the Silence,” a story 
of the Ozarks. Sold the motion picture rights. Pub- 
lished “Waters From An Ozark Spring” poems, 1909, 
and “Sung ?n SiFnce” in 1929. Honorary degree, Master of 
Let+ers, 1938. Member “Pi Gamma Mu”, National Asso- 
ciation of the Deaf. Placed in “Who’s Who in America”. 
Honorary Member of the Eugene Field Society. Appeared 
in “Living Authors of the Ozarks” first and second edi- 
tion. Past member Poetry Club of Southern California. 
Traveled in Europe in 1926. Three married children. 
Home: 1348 Martel Avenue, Hollywood, California. 


Below our farm a mile or so 

The Elm Spring’s waters rise and flow; 

By spreading elm and towering spruce 
It turns its crystal water loose. • 

Around about it cresses grow, 

Above, the wooded violets blow, 

The cowslips in the pastures stray. 

And ever the cooling waters play. 

The rocks of old around it stand. 

So rudely carved by the stormgod’s hand; 

And on their dripping side so cold 
The moss and the litchen have taken hold. 

’Tis there the cows from pastures near 
Come to drink of the waters clear, 

— 230 — 

And many a lover of solitude 

Has cheered his heart in the shady wood. 

And ever the murmuring waters flow, 

And ever the happy lovers go, 

And ever, ever, songbirds sing 
To make hearts happy at Elm Spring. 

— Howard Leslie Terry. 


Born May 19, 1878, near Marionville, Lawrence Coun- 
ty, Missouri. Became totally deaf at age of nine; educat- 
ed a: Fulton, Mo., Marionville Collegiate Institute, and 
Gallaudet College, Washington, D. C. Married Howard L. 
Terry, March 5, 1901; has three children; moved to Los 
Angeles, California, in 1910. 

Has always been a worker and writer in the cause of 
tne deaf. Has written many short stories; contributed 
many articles and editorials to different newspapers. Trav- 
eled abroad in 1926. Was twice President of California 
Association of the Deaf. Loves gardening and all subjects 
with human interest angle. Has an insatiable longing to 
live in the Ozarks again. Present home, 1348 N. Martel 
Avenue, Hollywood 46, California. 

■ 231 — 


Was born in Minnesota, October 8, 
1882, the daughter of Alonzo and Eliza- 
beth Greene. Educated in Wisconsin 
schools, where she taught in the rural 
schools for some time. In 1903 she was 
married to A. Leroy Totman. There are 
two children, Harold Leroy and Janet 
Ruth. She has two grandchildren. 

She first set foot on Missouri soil in 
1894 at the age of 12 when enroute with her parents in a 
cohered wagon to Wisconsin from Kansas where the 
family had lived for some time. The party camped in the 
Missouri River bottoms near St. Joe, and Mrs. Totman re- 
members that pawpaws were ripe at this time. The party 
explored the nearby woodland in search of pawpaws, it 
being their first time to see and taste “Missouri bananas.” 

Mrs. Totman is Secretary of the Gasconade Writers’ 
Guild of Rolla. 

Mrs. Totman is a talented poet and edits the little 
magazine, “The What Not,” which spreads cheer and much 
information to Ozarkians. A member of many organi- 
zations, her work has been featured in many publications, 
and on the radio. She is author of a book of poems, 
“Glowing Embers,” and is an active worker in any liter- 
ary field. Has a pleasant disposition, a friendly helping 
hand, and a heart of gold, as her many friends can 
testify. Her home is in Rolla, Mo. 


When the moon’s seductive glances 
Your witchery enhances, 

”Tis then I’m filled with rapture, 
With ecstasy sublime; 

When I fold you to my heart 
From the world we are set apart 
While on the wings of love 
We’re borne to some Elysian clime. 


I know I’ve always longed to be 
From envy, spite and malice free; 

To have a part in God’s great plan, 

And be a friend to my fellowman; 

A friend on whom he may depend, 

Who will his right to life defend; 

A friend who tries to banish strife 
Along his torturous road of life; 

One who’ll never say him “nay” 

Nor aught of evil against him say — 

O help me, Lord, to ever be 
From envy, spite and malice free. 

— Eleanor A. Totman. 
(From Country Road, Rolla Herald, Rolla, Mo.) 

— 233 — 


Was born to Harry anJ 
Nellie Tucker in Webb 
City, Mo., October 29, 1914. 
Was graduated from the 

Aurora, Missouri, High 
School in class of 1932. 

At the age of seventeen 
she became ill of arthritis 
and has been confined to 
her bed completely helples s 
for ten years. 

She began writing 
poetry in high school and 
says midnight is inspirational as she writes better after 
midnight. She won an all High School spelling contest 

while a Junior in High. ^ . , , . 

When Zoe became ill during Christmas vacation m 
her Senior year, the teacher came to her home and helped 
her with her lessons. • Her grandfather, Porter B. Hood, 
arranged with Miles Elliff for Zoe to finish her course by 
correspondence and with the cooperation of teachers she 
was able to pass with flying colors. A delegation came to 
the Hood home to present her diploma. 

In 1939 the KVOO Radio Station’s Bob Wills dedicated 
a half hour to her. She says her mother is her best critic, 
companion, day and night nurse, and Angel of Mercy, and 
works for no salary, but I guess that is what mothers are. 
Zoe owns her own home and lives at Aurora, Missouri. 

She prizes very highly the following from the pen of 
Charles H. Driscoll’s “New York Day by Day” column: 

“The most widely loved Zoe of today, it seems, is Zoe 
Tucker,, of Joplin, Mo. Many people have written me about 
her and one lady has written for her, a personal message. 
This Zoe is immobilized by arthritis, much as is my old 
friend, Gerber Schafer of Reading, Pa. Firemen of Jop- 
lin have used spare time to rig up a mirror in Zoe’s room, 
so that she can see, as she lies motionless in her bed, the 
world pass by as did the Lady of Shallott in Tennyson’s 
poem. They tilt the mirror for her, and she can see her 
lovely flower garden, in season. Someone finds time to read 

—234 — 

this column to her every day. and she enjoys it. . , . Did 
some inspiration from the atmosphere cause me to write 
that thoughtless line about the name Zoe, so that I might 
■discover this good lacy and pass on to you the story of 
her placid, serene, helpful life? For I have the testimony 
of her fellow-citizens that she encourages the discouraged, 
and lights her little corner of the world with a radiant 
smile God bless you, Zoe!” 


I know that it is customary 
On the fourteenth day of February, 

To send to the one you love the most, 

A heart-shaped token in the post. 

Since you’re that one. Quite naturally 
You’ll be expecting one from me. 

But if you look and find that I 
Have failed to do so, — here is why: 

I thought that since you owned my heart. 

You wouldn’t need a counterpart. 

This poem was published in Springfield Leader in 
Hill-billy Heart-Beat column by May Kennedy 


I never see a Christmas tree, star bright and tinsel gay. 

But that I see a little boy who now has gone away. 

A little boy who could not sleep upon the Christmas eve, 

Who stood in wide-eyed wonder, when Santa Claus would 

The soldier men, the drums, the horns, and every painted 

That makes complete a Christmas for any little boy. 

So when the Christmas stars are out and people start to 

The Christmas trees for little boys — I light a tree for him. 

— Zoe Aileen Tucker. 

This was read personally by Dion McNeill 
on the N.B.C. Breakfast Club Program. 

— 235 — 


I, Laura Ann Freman 
Turner, first saw the light 
of day December 21, 1870, 
in a log cabin near Sulli- 
van, III. This was a very 
humble log structure hav- 
ing no window for light, 
only one door for entrance 
and to open for admittance 
of light, it had a chimney 
built of sticks and clay, 
and a puncheon floor. For 
a light they used a candle 
made in a pan of grease 
with a twisted string. We 
lived in this place until I 
was six years of age, then _ 
my mother died. That left ' 
me with no means of getting an education so far as schools 
w re concerned but people with whom I lived from time 
to time helped me in their limited way of- teaching me 
and that is the way I learned ito read, write and figure. 
The rest I have learned from true observation and being 

forced ito make my own way. 

When I was twenty-seven I married Dr. F. FranraSa®: 
Chicago specialist. Then came babies to bless our home 
and it was then the desire came into my head to fash- 
ion my own lull-a-byes and I began to compose my own 
words and to many of them would add a fitting melody. 
In 1918, when my two sons were in service of our country, 
I had my first book published entitled, “Patriotic Poems” 
I have contributed to a number of papers in poetry and 
short articles of prose: Springfield Daily News, Ozark 
Mountain News, Pindlay Enterprise, E/quality Trilbune, 
Mountain View Standard, .Howell County Gazette, Willow 
Springs Advocate and many others. My poems and songs 
have been broadcast over radio stations. In 1937 I pub- 

lished a song in sheet music entitled “Ozark Blues.” In 

— 236 — 

1939 I published m, second book, “Songs of The Heart.” 
Have another ready for publication now. 

My hobbies are painting, using saw and hammer, 
making novelties of wood and writing verse. I am sev- 
enty-three years of age, have lived in and near Moun 
tain Vie#-/, Mo., for thirty-six years. This hill-billy country 
is a heaven on earth to me. I am still active in social and 
church work. 

L. A. Turner (Pen Name Hill-billy Ann). 


No one e’er showed to us a road 
That leads to heaven that blest abode. 

Such blessings never were bestowed 
By anyone but Jesus. 

None ever died upon the tree, 

That we from sin could be set free. 

Or walked the water on the sea, 

No one but Jesus. 

No one has ever gave a call 

And spilled his life blood for us all, 

For every one both great and small, 

No one but Jesus. 

No one in time of darkest gloom,. 

Can there instead make roses bloom 
And fill the air with sweet perfume. 

No one but Jesus. 

No one was ever known to rise, 

Or take their flight unlto the skys, 

No one was ever half so wise. 

As Jesus. 

No one knows our wants and needs, 

No one is there can intercede 
And with the father daily plead 
For us, no one but Jesus. 

— L. A. Turner. 

— 237 — 


Neosho, Missouri, Authority 
on Ozark! Folklore and dia- 
lect - staged a regional Folk 
Festival at Neosho’s Centen- 
nial in 1939* Specializes in 
Ozark Cookery, does a col- 
umn in Qtto E. Rayburn’s 
Ozark Guide: “Ozark alma- 
nac*” Native born Missourian 
pure Anglo-Saxon stock from 
“Illinoy.” Writes some poet- 
ry, especially bits of folklore 
told in rhyme* Member of the 
“Hillcrofters” - Artcraf ters - 
Ozark Writers- Artists Guild* 
Fla’s sold work to The Kansas 
City Star, Denver Post,. 
Plearst’s American Weekly, 
Crowell Publishing Co., local 
papers and trs^de journals* 
At present, writing Radio 
Persimmon Holler who talks 
California. : 

Script for: MIRANDY of 
each day on ABC from 


, " ij . ' 

I aimed to be a Princess grand, 

An’, live across’t the sea, 

But ,my home’s a Ozark cabin. 

An’ 1 .ride in. a model T* 

I alius craved fer a diamond, ring, 
Fruift .the feller I aimed to wed, 

Now — I’m wear in’ a thin gold circle, 
On knuckles rough an’ red* 

Tve hankered fer a black silk dress 
A hat with a willer-plume, 

But He got me a Brussels carpet, 

An’ a cheer fer the settin’ room. 

I reckon they’s no use complaining 9 , 

I’ll go an’ set a hen — 

Git Him to plow a piece o’ ground, 

An’ scratch some garden in. 

Hit’s Springtime! thet’s what ails me. 

Me thinkin’ sich things — I laugh! 

I’ll wish the litter o’ pigs does well, 

An’ thet Boss has a heifer calf! 

Published; The Kansas City Star, March 20, 1939. 
Hillbilly Heartbeats, March 31, 1939. 

Kansas City Star-Missouri Notes, April 1, 1939. 


Whaley, fix the far, and I’ll bake yer Pa some biskits. 
Hit’s gettin’ nigh time fer him to drive in — 

Bill, git the cows an’ feed the hawgs an’ chickens, 

If the chores hain’t done — he’ll be madder’n sinl 
Suze, fetch some cobs an 9 tote in some water, 

Min, run to the smokehouse an’ git down a ham, 

We’ll have skillet gravy an’ ’taters in their jackets, 

With scads o’ sodie biskits an’ strawberry jam! 

Whaley! leave thet cat be! an’ do like I told ye! 

I declare to goodness — never seed the beat! 

Me workin’ an’ slavin’ fer a onery batch o’young’uns — 
Now run like turkeys — if ye aims to eat! 

Wonder what in Sam Hill’s a keepin’ John this evenin’! 
Hain’t never knowed him to be this late! 

Thar he comes now! * . . Light the lamp Granny! 

An’ one o’ you youngun’s run an’ open the gate! 

— Ruth H. Tyler 

Published Springfield, Missouri News, June 6, 1938 



Lucille Morris (Mrs. Eugene V. Upton), 1419 North 
Grant Avenue, Springfield, Missouri. 

Born July 22, Dadeville, Missouri. Parents: Albert G. 
and Veda Wilson Morris. 

Education: Dadeville Public Schools, Greenfield High 
School, Drury College, Southwest Missouri State Teachers 
College. Taught school Dadeville and Everton, Missouri, 
and Roswell, New Mexico. 1 ©porter on Denver Express, 
Denver, Colorado, 1923 and 1924; El Paso Times, El Paso, 
Texas, 1925; Springfield News and Leader, Springfield, 
Missouri, 1926 to 1936. 

Married Eugene V. Upton, July 22, 1936. Writer of 
‘‘Bald Knobbers,” published by Caxton Printers, Inc., Cald- 
well, Idaho. 

A Pair of Hillbilly Boys 

— 240 — 


St. Louis-born parents were my heritage. I was born 
in the same metropolis and am steeped in her secrets and 
lore— warm spring days when nature clothes this city 
child anew, colorful autumn intervals oft-veiled in sadness 
after the first welcome, the gray smoky months of winter 
when the air is thick and heavy but reminiscent of warm 
fires in our homes, or the cold, snowy, mornings with their 
hush and austerity, twin to like ones spent in the open and 
last, the hot oppressive summers which people endure on 
the lap of the Mississippi because there is little else to do. 
I am involved in city life as my grandparents were here 
m the middle-west. 

Churtn spires, tall apartments, county homes, fast 
buses, lines of motor cars, the hurried step, the gaunt 
face, the infrequent smile, influence my daily living to such 
extent that subconsciously I hied back from western shores 
and the columns of an eastern school to follow the steps 
of my forebears and to enjoy the spirit of this real 
American city. 

I am a painter and am working on a book also. 



Cosmopolitan life spreads at my feet. 

Men and women surge from work. 

Trolleys ring their bells in warning, 

Brakes applied in haste, are shrill. 

Birds, flying together, wing northward. 

I wear my loneliness as a capulet 
That cannot be removed. 

Onlooker and participant in city life, 

Yet solitary, too, I wear my capulet of loneliness 
That I yearn to have removed, 

(Softer) That I yearn to have removed. 

(Softer) That I yearn to have removed. 

— Olivia Vogel. 

— 241 — 

Norine Criger Watts is pre- 
dominantly Irish (and very 
proud of it) with a German 
strain, a dash of English, 
French and Scotch. The 
Criger pant of her name is 
her maiden name, and rhymes 
with trigger or chigger 
though most people persist in 
pronouncing it Cry-ger — to 
her acute annoyance. 

Was born on an Ozarks hill- 
side farm, where it seemed to 
her the grass always grew 
just a little greener than any- 
where else, and there were 
dozens of big walnut trees to 
give shade — she could hardly 
wait for the first warm days 
so that she might discard her 
shoes and run barefooted over 
the rocky, green hills. 

Her mother died when she was seven, “Memories 
of a Young Mother,” was written in memory of her. 

She married an Ozarks farm boy, 

“I have several hobbies, but my favorite one aside from 
the little bit of writing I do is pencil or pen sketching. I 
illustrate all my. verse with these sketches; would like to 
paint, but have never had any instruction and have never 
had itime or courage to try alone. I have not tried as yet 
to market any kind of writing except verse — which js, 
of course, hardest of all types to sell — because I have 
had so little time to devote to the more tedious job of 
prose writing. But I still have not given up hope of hav- 
ing more time some day. 

Mrs. Wa + ts writes me: '“I furnished the witchcraft 
stories for “Ozark Country” (pp 164 to 167 (. I still have 
Mr. Rayburn’s letter asking my permission to use them, 
as well as my first draft of the copies I sent him.” Her 
home is Stockton, Missouri. 



Jewels there are of fabulous worth. 

Men dig them out of redolent earth; 
Jewels of mine, I think, are best: 

Topaz, ruby, and ametflyst. 

Shining in glasses and jars arrayed — 
Gleaming jewels that I have made. 

Royal colors my kitchen fill, 

From jelly jars on my window-sill. 

I cannot see her face for I was young 
When last I saw her, but I hear 
Her young voice singing ever sweet and clear. 

I see her in her garden singing in the sun. 

Or feeding baby chicks when day is done. 

I cannot see her face, but I can see 
Her gentle fingers strum her loved guitar. 

And hear again the melody of clear note and bar. 
And when the evening sun has painted red the sky, 
I see her rock the babe, and hear a lullaby. 

I have no mem’ry of harsh words, a tear, a sigh. 

A laugh — a song — the pictures come and go ; 
Tender, and gay, and bright she was — 

I’ve missed her so! 


Whirling snow-flakes stir my blood. 

Send my pulses leaping; 

Rain drops at night sing a lullaby 
O’er me while I’m sleeping. 

A saucy squirrel, a mighty stream. 

Moving slowly to the sea; 

A shaded path, a singing wind. 

Speak a language known to me. 

Walking a crowded cSty street. 

Lonely and lone am I; 

My friends are folk of (the field and wood. 

And stars in a velvet sky. 

— Norine Criger Watts. 

— 243 — 


Born near Frazer, Buchanan 
County, Missouri, January 6. 
1902, to James K. and Laura Gid- 
dens Auxier. Ten days later her 
mother died. She. was an only 
child so was 'taken and came up 
under her paternal grandparents. 
Married Jesse H. Watkins, Janu- 
ary 11, 1922. Has three boys, 
ages 19, 18 and 16. 

Has written poems since she 
was in grammar school for her 

own amusement and also write prose articles. Loves to read 
and study the Bible. Has always had a healthy respect for 
this Book since her grandmother spanked her for making 
marks in It when she was a small child. 

One of her hobbies is music. She plays the piano and 

knows hundreds of songs in all classes. Likes to draw and 

paint also. 

Some of her work has been published in poetry publica- 
tions, newspapers and anthologies including the 1942 
editions of “The Poetry Digest” and “Who’s Who In Poetry 
In Am erica.” “Oaks and Hearts” was recently published 
in Newfoundland Quarterly, St. Johns, Newfoundland. 

Her home is Agency, Missouri. 


My broken heart is like a rose, 

For tears like fallmg petals start. 

Deep down in somber silence glows 
My broken heart. 

When cupid sailed his fiery dart, 

Then let the door to Heaven close 
I was adrift without a chart. 

As winter wind employs the snow’s 

Pure flakes to hide earth’s blasted part, 
My smile shall hide a tear that shows 
My broken heart. 

Published in Fletcher’s Farming, Hondo, Texas. 


Bereft, I shall not walk alone 
Down war’s dark avenue; 

Among the mother hearts, my own 
Is passing in review. 

Our faith shall be a star to guide 
Across the foaming stream. 

And prayer prove the dauntless shield 
Against the madman’s dream. 

To guard our own with prayer and faith 
And many fervent pleas. 

We mothers over all the world 
Are marching on our knees. 

Published in Kansas City Times and Newfoundland 
Quarterly, St. John’s, Newfoundland. Read over 
KMBC Radio Station. 


“Light as a feather,” you say. 

And so is a lie, my dear. 

But the truth has weight to lay 
Undusted from year to year. 


Little Mother who gave 
Me life and went away 
I stand beside your grave 
And bow to Mother’s Day. 


In pity God reached down a hand 
To life my dark despair. 

With pleading eyes I turned to Him 
And found an answer there. 

And oh, His love encompassed me 
Till my despair had fled 
And I could face the world again. 

Restored and comforted. 

—Lucy Watkins. 

— 245 — 


Was born and still lives 
in the historic little town 
of Newtonia, Missouri, 
where a battle of the Civil 
War was fought. 

Mrs. Weems is a direct 
descendant of John Han- 
cock, who heads the list of 
signers of the Declaration 
of Independence. He was 
a great, great uncle of her 

Her father was a mer- 
chant ar#d Postmaster in 
Newtonia for many years. 

She married E. B. 

Weems, whose parents were 
pioneer residents of New- 
ton County. 

Two of their three ch: 
poems have been published in a number of magazines and 
daily papers, and have been broadcast over seven radio 
stations. She has won several prizes in poetry and jingle 

In 1941 she published a little book of poems, its title, 
“Through The Years,” the poems range from humor to 
pathos. One of these poems has been featured in the 
monthly extension club letters. 

She has written poems for many special occasions, 
including P.T.A. — Tri-State Missionary Programs — 
County Club meetings, and her poem, “To A Bride,” which 
was published in her book of poems, was written by re- 
quest for a bride in Peoria, Illinois. 

I’m headin’ for the Ozarks 
My memory’s very clear 
Pa always made sweet cider 
About this time of year. 


I’d give a hundred dollars 
(I haven’t lost my head) 

For a glass of Ozark cider. 

And a hunk of gingerbread. 

I’m headin’ for the Ozarks 
I’ll hear the old mill chug. 

It’s cider time in the Ozarks 
And I’m going to take my jug. 

I’m headin’ for the Ozarks 
Oh, I can hardly wait 
I'or Pa’ll be makin' cider. 

And Ma’ll be at the gate. 


Dedicated to all Mothers who have Sons 
in the Service of Our Country 
I can see him now as he used to look, 

Serene and sure as he pored over a book. 

His clear gray eyes were pools of light. 

Filled with visions of future days all bright. 

I can see the wave in his hair — his kindly smile. 

His strong tall "form — when all the while, 

I knew it was coming — his country’s call. 

Then he volunteered — he’s giving all. 

I prayed, “Dear Lord, he’s my only son, 

Let not my will but Thine be done. 

Though he sails the seas or skims the sky 
Please be near him Lord, I know he’ll try. 

To help win freedom for other lands. 

To cut the serpent’s slimy bands, 

Which bind conquered countries, like cold blue steel. 
They’re too hungry to fight, too numb to feel.” 
Through my tears I can see better days ahead. 

When nations will lose their fear and dread. 

Then we’ll lift glad voices — the Stars will sing, 
When the world is Free — and God is King. 

— Mrs. Fannie Orena Weems. 
This poem was cover page of “Word and Way,” 
a Kansas City paper, in August, 1943. 

— 247 — 

Was born in Bollinger County, 

Missouri, October 2, 1893. Her pa- 
rents, Mr. and Mrs. Elfrink were 
prominent farmers in the Leopold 
community and were highly respect- 
ed. She received her education at 
Leopold. She always loved the out- 
of-doors and could content herself 
for hours walking along shaded paths 
in the forests watching the birds or 
hunting and fishing. She was a great 
lover of nature. Her address is Chaf- 
iee, Missouri, Route L 


r:i take my pen between my fi 
Yes, they're shakey while I write 
Oh, yes, I am growing older 
Pll soon be bidding you goodnight. 

When I leave this world behind me 
May I leave it full of friends 
If I've injured any of you 
I am ready to make amends. 

For this life is not worth living. 

If you do not live it right; 

Turn it into rays of sunshine 
.Before it's time to say goodnight. 

— Mrs. Rosena Westrich. 

W. S. White was born on 
a farm in Saline County, Mis- 
souri, and attended school in 
three different districts while 
living on that farm, because of 
new districts being organized 
and boundary lines being chang- 
ed. In those days rural schools 
were poorly organized and with 
little attention paid to a care- 
ful and systematic course of 
training, however the educa- 
tional spirit was good and the 
youngsters derived much good 
fiom such old schools. In 1886 

Mr. White went to Bolivar, Missouri, and entered Southwest 
Baptist College which was a very weak and struggling in- 
stitution at that time. After two years in college he 
taught country schools (which were usually short terms 
in those days.) Then back to college for the remainder 
of the school year until his college work was completed. He 
became principal of Bolivar High School two terms,, then 
was elected Superintendent of Ash Grove Public Schools 
where he met and married the charming Miss Helen Baker, 

the primary teacher. He returned to Bolivar as Superinten- 
dent of the Bolivar Public Schools. 

Mr. White retired from school work to go into the 
furniture and undertaking business and has continued that 
line forty-five years, and as Mr. White says, he has touched 

the community in almost every conceivable way, serving on 
the Town Board, Fair, Building and Loan, Library and 
twenty-five years on the School Board, Ruling Elder and 
Superintendent of Sunday School, and was sent by the 
Ozark Presbytery to Atlantic City in 1910 to the General 
Assembly of the Presbyterian Church. He is an Odd Fellow 
and has taken all the degrees and gone through all the 
chairs of the York Rite Masonry and has “pinch-hit” a 
number of times in the pulpit when the regular minister 
was sick or away on vacation. 

Mr. White loves the erreat out-of-doors and his life 
is very active and useful. He likes both poetry and prose 
if well expressed and meaningful. The Twenty-fthird and 

— 250 — 

One Hundred and Thirty Seventh Psalms are his favorite 
Bible poems. As Mr. White says, “I like amateur poems 
because they always express the deep and sincere emo- 
tions of the heart.” Mr. White’s work has appeared in 
the Rotary Magazine, the Desert Magazine and Arcadian 
Life and his poems have been read over radio stations in 
the middle west. 


There is a beautiful isle somewhere in my dreams 
And its charms are always new 
It is the place where all would like to dwell 
It’s the isle where dreams come true. 

And oft in my dreams with all on board 
Who are near and dear to me 
I set sail on the sea of life 
To that isle beyond the deep blue sea. 

And I hope when I’ve reached my journeys end 
And all of life’s tasks are done 
To cast anchor in the harbor of that beautiful isle 
Where no disappointments can come. 

— W. S. White. 

— 251 — 


I was born in 1875 at 
Cincinnati, Ohio. The 
fourth child of a group of 
eight children of C. G. and 
Emily M. Bracher. Attend- 
ed the parochial school of 
the Ev. Luth. Trinity 
Church, and after my thir- 
teenth year attended the 
public schools at Mt. Au- 
burn, Cincinnati, Ohio. 

My musical education was attained at the Cincinnati 
College of Music, voice and piano, under Professors 
Winthrop T. Sterling and Romeo Gorno. Under Dean Frank 
vander Stucken of the College of Music, I was awarded a 
Teacher’s Certificate for Voice Culture. My musical edu- 
cation extended over a period of eight years. Sang in var- 
ious Episcopal churches over a period of intermittent 
years. Was organist at the Church of Our Saviour (Gr. 
Luth.) on Dayton Street, the old “West End” of Cincin- 
nati, for seven years. The last three years of this time I 
was also employed at the Cincinnati Bell Telephone Co. 

In June, 1909, I married Mr. Herman William Wich- 
man of St. Louis. Have three children, a daughter and 
two sons, twins, born at St. Louis. In 1917 we moved 
to Jerome, Mo., and still reside at Jerome, Mo. 

A Lament 

This was my heritage — I loved so well 
The church of my father, its clear-toned bell! 

Each Sabbath eve jts glad peal came ringing 
To one and all its sweet message bringing — 

“Hear ye, another week’s labor is o’er 
0, come to God’s house, come enter its door. 

Come up the stairs to the portal’s wide spread 
With the gath’ring brethren in fellowship tread, 

— 252 — 

Come, as the organ’s rich harmony swells, 
Rev’rently enter the house where God dwells. 

O come ! Bend the knee, your voice in pray’r r: ise. 
His love kept you safely! His be the praise! 

Come, for a space forget wrangling and strif , 
Taste of God’s bounty, the true Bread of Life! 
Come, hear the siory of God’s wondrous love 
Receive His blessing, the peace from above. 

Hear ye, clearly I peal every word, 

O come all ye faithful, worship the Lord ! 
Deprived of my heritage in exile I dwell, 

Far from my church with its clear pealing belt 

Out of the past its echo comes ringing 
As in days of old its message bringing. 

“Oh God of my fathers, hear, I implore! 

Call me from exile, my heritage restore.” 
(Published by Concordia Lutheran in 1932) 


Intrepid moss rose growing 
In withered flower bed. 

Still cheerfully uplifting 
Your crimson-petaled head. 

I wonder, are you knowing 
November winds blow cold? 

You should be soundly sleeping 
Beneath the leaf-strewn mold. 

Was it some soft breeze blowing. 
Or did you whisper this? — 

“Pm patiently awaiting 
November’s good night kiss.” 

“Then I, too, will be going 
Contentedly to rest 
^Tucked in a downy blanket 
Close to my mother’s breast.” 

/T _, — Clara Bracher WIchman. 

(From St. Louis Globe-Democrat, Nov. 17, 1936) 


I was born in Webb City, 
Missouri. Moved to Waterford, 
Wisconsin, with my family when 
I was ten years old. Attended 
both Grade and High School in 
both states. 

In High School I had a burn- 
ing desire to be a great dramatic 
actress. I had the lead in all the 
school plays, and was greatly en- 
couraged by my dramatic teach- 
er when she said I could be a great success if I chose. 

I married Floyd Kenneth Wiggins, October 31st, 1928. 
Our little daughter, Cecelia Jean, was born three years la- 
ter and then about four years after that our littel son, 
Floyd Richard, was born. Our greatest enjoyment is tak- 
ing a day off to roam the woods and hills of the Ozarks. 

My parents, Minnie and Alfred Toutz, were both rear- 
ed in Missouri. They had four girls and one boy. My fath- 
er was a mining engineer in his father’s mines. 

Since I gave up the idea of being a dramatic actress 
I decided to make characters act on paper, instead. An 
ambition that was greatly encouraged by my mother, who 
used to have me read to her often. We would then discuss 
what I had read. 

Since her passing, I realize more and more, as time 
goes on, what a heritage she left me. Her patience and un- 
derstanding, her loving concern for her children stay with 
me. I hope to some day become a fiction writer. 

I have written one complete novel, several short stor- 
ies and some poetry, although to date, have not had them 
published. I have, however, been, given encouragement by 
the Vice-President of The MacMillan Co., Publishers. 

My residence at present is at 2304 Connor, Joplin, Mo. 


God! give to me a spot between 
Hills of robust Autumn’s hue— ■ 

— 254 — 

Such as russet, copper, orange — 

’Neath the sky of azure blue. 

Give to me a heart as brave 
As robins have, who stay their flight — 

Dare the winter through to live 
In our rich Ozarkian land. 

Let me keep my family yet — 

Laughter and light in amber eyes — 
Blessings money never buys — 

In Ozarkian Paradise. 

Things worth while, are a baby’s smile — 

A hand clasp, glad, of a little lad; 

A mother’s kiss, and a Dad’s heigh-ho! 

A cheery word from friends we know, 

A conscience clear of hate and sin; 

Love and peace to the journey’s end. 


Ozark Autumn; land of livin’ 

Land of peace and cheerful givin’; 

Gentle breeze, a mellow token; 

Crackle of a dry twig broken; 

Smokin’ campfire; thoughts unspoken. 
Sets one wishin’ and a hopin’. 

— Marguerite Elizabeth Wiggins 

- - 255 - 

Coral Almy Wilson was 
born June 19, 1879, at 

Plum Creek, Nebraska, 
daughter of William Har- 
rison and Rhoda Jane 
Almy, who had migrated 
to Nebraska from the At- 
lantic coast.' Her parents 
named her Coral, to remind 
them of the sea, the 
name meaning daughter of 
the sea. 

In 1886 the family 
moved to Arkansas, near 
Eureka Springs. Mrs. 
Wilson worked her way 
thru school, and became a 
school teacher. In 1901 
married James P. Wilson 
of Valley Springs, Arkan- 
sas. She is mother of a «on 
and a daughter and now lives at Zink, Arkansas. 

Mrs. Wilson’s poems have been read over Radio, and 
published in many newspapers and athologies. 


Sets a little ol’ log cabin in a clearin’ on a hill 
Hit brings a lovin’ feelin’ ’at lingers with me still 
Thar’s a ol’ rail-fence around hit, an’ Mother’s at th’ door 
Callin’ us to dinner by th’ sun-mark on th’ floor. 

We had no clocks in them ol’ days to tick th’ hours away 
We had no silver watches fine to tell th’ time o’ day 
But Mother never failed to come into th’ cabin door 
An’ call us in to dinner by th’ sun-mark on th’ floor. 

The cabin-door stood open th’ whole long summer through 
Plit sagged down on hits hinges as cabin-doors will do 
But Mother’s face was sweet to us when she stood in the 

An’ called yer dinners ready Boys by th’ sun mark on 
th’ floor. 

(Printed in Kansas University Journal) 



Boardin’ roun’ our Teacher is 
Jes’ boardin’ roun’. 

First off he went to Parson Johns’ 

An’ Parson he jes’ prayed so loud 

Fer th’ Lord to send enough to eat 
’At Teacher, he up an’ turned him round 
An’ he went over to oY Jim Brown’s 
Whar eat in’s plenty. 

Ol’ Jim gits up at four o’clock 

An’ all hans work till th’ corn’s all shocked 

Till Teacher, he’s pum tuckered out 

So hi jes’ up an’ turns about 

An’ tuck him over to Widder Smith’s 
She ast him which o’ th’ kids uz th’ wittiest 
An’ which o’ th’ gals he thought uz th’ prettiest 
An’ why he combed his hair that way 

Till Teacher, he didn’t know what to say. 

So he went over to Ira Stubble’s 
An’ fust thing off he got in trubble 
Ol’ Ira’s sister’s a plum ol’ maid 

She got him out in th’ orchard’s shade 
An’ ast him when he aimed to marry 
Teacher said he couldn’t tarry 
He bundled his clothes an’ fetched over hyar 

He’s out on th’ porch in th’ rockin’ cheer 
Makin’ eyes at our Caling Lou 
Bet she’s makin’ ’em back agin too 
An’ if thar’s anything in a smackin’ soun’ 

Our Teacher’s done a boardin’ roun’. 

— Coral Almy Wilson. 
(Printed In Springfield Leader and News) 

— 257 - 


Byrda J. Wilson, free 
lance, consultant and mar- 
ket adviser. Born, educat- 
ed and has always lived in 
Missouri. First knowledge 
of journalism acquired at 
fourteen, fifty years ago, 
writing Gallatin High 
School Notes, at sixteen 
learned typesetting and 
feature writing on The 
Gallatin North Missourian; 

1919 to 1925, reporter on 
Chillicothe Business Col- 
lege paper, The Quacker, 
and year-book, The Dux; 
engaged in free lancing in- 
termittently and reported 
also for the Constitution- 
Tribune; member of Na- 
tional League of American Pen Women ; charter member of 
Chillicothe Business and Professional Women’s Club; Del- 
phian Chapter^ and Chillicothe Culture Club while a resi- 
dent of that city. Many years a member of P. T. A. 
Member of National Writers’ Club and Tri-State Writers. 
Hobbies: Goats, clipping early .Americana, reading and 
Oak Knoll, on Highways 66-71, North Pine Street Road, 
Carterville. Address Route, Box 292, Joplin, Mo. 


Innes, Turner and Wallace Nuttig have painted no 
lovelier examples of the great outdoors than one can 
glimpse from a window — house or automobile — - while 
sitting at home, spinning along highways, or tramping 
favorite trailways and old roads in the Ozark hills. 

Oculists recommend looking at objects in the distances 
for tired and failing eyes and none will dispute the good 

— 258 — 


to be gained by ihis practice — yet it is legend that the 
Ozark woods are an eyeful any time — and there are rem- 
edies for many human ills to be found in the woods and 
hills aside from the scenery value to eye exercises, ac- 
cording to native traditions and folklore. 

Truly just looking, like the occulist advises, at woods 
in October, and again in the spring when wild flowers 
carpet the hills and roadsides, is good eye tonic and good 
soul tonic, too. 

— Byrda J. Wilson. 

— 259 — * 


Viola Davis Wilson was born near Emporia, Kansas. 
Came to Missouri as a mall child. Married in 1916, and 
has *wo children. Lives on a farm and loves it. Favorite 
amusement — Radio and movies. Favorite out-door sports 
— swimming and horseback riding. Favorite hobbies — 
collecting old books, Indian relics, and odd stones. Secret 
ambition — to paint. Present address: Republic, Missouri. 
Has one son in service. 


Is it only because my eyes are dim, 

From lying awake so much in the night, 

That the sun doesn’t shine_any more as bright; 
And the flowers and trees and everything, 

Are not so fair as they were, this Spring? 

It must be only my eyes. 

Still that shouldn’t make the wood dove’s note 
Sound dull, and the robin and red bird’s cal) 

And the song of the woodland creatures, all. 

To jangle so and hurt my throat? 

No, I know the reason: 

This is the day my soldier boy is going awa 

Far from his home to an unknown land, 

Where we cannot follow even in dreams, 

Nor share his trials, hard as it seems. 

And only God can understand. 


Oh, have you seen the dogwood 
When the first robin trills. 

The lovely pearly dogwood 
That whitens all the hills? 

- 260 — 

There’s nothing quite so fair to see 
Wherever you may go ? 

There’s nothing like the dogwood 
With bloom of purest snow. 

There’s nothing half so sweet and fresh 
So prodigal of bloom 
So careless of the cold spring rain 
It flowers so very soon. 

Scarcely are the snow drifts gone 

And ice from woodland rills 

When the dogwood spreads its graceful boughs 

To whiten all the hills. 

— -Viola Davis Wilson. 


Nancy Middleton Williams, who has written many 
poems, and wnose wont nas appeared in many magazines, 
newspapers, ana anthologies. She published a oook oi 
poems, ‘‘Cobwebs Yrom An Old Manse.” The wife of Hamp 
Williams. She lives at Jtiot Springs. Arkansas, and m her 
sweet, lovable mnnner will travel down tne load to yester 
years by way of memory lane with you in her lovely poems, 
as you will see by ber verses, let us follow along to the land 
of tne used to be. 


You dr ank to me with lips so red 
Tne Jttuoy nectar, too, 1 sipped — 

And all tne glowing Pours — now dead — 
noid memories of your lips. 

Tne glass is empty — gone the wine! 

Tne ngnts extinguished — now is gloom, 
let an nearts hold still the shine, 

Bright iignts — and you within a room. 


Once I stood and smiled, 
nouiving up at you — 
f our foot on a moving train ; 

A last adieu — 
i enarged my heart. 

Vv nen moments came 

'That you should never know — 

The pain. 

You uid not know 
I cried the whole night through 
And mo,rnng found my pillow wet; 

Wet like dew. 

You did not know 

How deep my love — for you. 

— 262 — 


A road we traveled yester-years 
1 passed along again today. 

The red buds and the dogwoods wear 
The same bright dress in May — 

And you were with me today. 

Though years have passed, and you away. 


The blue wind is a fairy 

Whose feet grace the cloud land stage 

Her dress, all blue and airy — 

Nor can you guess her age. 

A youth with feet shod golden 
With poise that of a sage 
And all the elf’s beholden — 

Star princess come of age. 

Each night by the light Octurus 
On a stage in front of Mars, 

When the moon shines on Uranus — 

Her dance is a swirl of stars ! 

The Rainbow dance of colors 
All red and mauve and green — 

In shimmering gown of twilight — 

The Blue Wind Queen is seen. 

And when the night is ended — 

She lies on a couch, cloud deep 
And all the stars watch over her 
The Blue Wind Queen — asleep. 

— Nancy Middleton Williams. 

— 263 — 


Ozarkian by birth; Danish by descent. 
Born June 18, 1903, on a farm near Hous- 
ton, Mo. Attended Houston High School. 
Began an English major in college' chang- 
ed to science, and holds degrees of B. S. 
and M. S. with physics major from Mis- 
souri School of Mines. Post graduate 
work at University of Missouri and Uni- 
versity of Michigan in physics. At present is Assistant 
Prof' ssor of Physics at the Missouri School of Mines. Hob- 
bies and avocations are books and stamps. Editor of The 
Missouri Precancel News, official organ of the Missouri Pre- 
cancel Club. Active in local and state-wide Masonic cir- 
cles. Enthusiastic golfer somewhat better than the duffer 
class. Married. No children. President of Gasconade 
Writers Guild, 1943. 


Oh God, so will, I pray, 

To let me live until the end 
That I can give to every friend 
A bit of me — my way of thought — 

A memory with meaning fraught. 

Grant this, Oh God, today. 


The same old world, we say, 

As we count off each day, 

Though life brings smiles and tears, 

As time unfolds its years. 

But time is so unkind ; 

In retrospect we find, 

As life’s broad path we range, 

Naught so constant as, change! 

— John M. Willson. 


Born December 2, 1869, 
at Holman, near Ivy Depot, 
Albermarle County, Virginia. 
Educated at University of 
Virginia. Resides at Roiia, 
Missouri. Editor of Rolla 
Herald since 1899. He was 
elected Prosecuting Attor- 
ney of Phelps County, 1899- 
1900. Mayor of Rolla 1922- 

Lieutenant Colonel Gov- 
ernor Dockery’s staff, and 
Col. Military Staff of Gov- 
ernor Gardner. Elected to 
33rd and 34th General As- 
sembly in 1926 and 1928. 
Member Soldiers Home 
Board. Past Deputy Grand 
Master Masonic Order. Stands high in civic and state af- 
fairs and is an editorial light in the State of Missouri. 

Member of the Gasconade Writers’ Guild, Ozarks 
Press Association and many other press organizations, 
Past President. Missouri Press Association, Member of the 
Board of Directors Missouri Historical Society. 



“What we need in this country today is strong action 
and strong jails. Our country is at war — a dangerous 
war. It requires united and ' organized effort to win. Any 
man, set of men or organization of men who attempt to 
hold back, slow down — or delay war work, war production, 
must be treated as enemies of our Government.” 

— Col. Chas. L. Woods. 

— 265 — 

Edward A. Witmer, was 
born at Sarcoxie, Missouri 
His parents moved, to 
Wayne County, Indiana, 
where they made their 
home until Edward grew to 
manhood. He attended 
school at East Germantown 
and Abington, Indiana. His 
first employment, was wvn 
the Fulton Boiler Works 
in Richmond and at the 
outbr eak of the Spanish - 
American war he enlisted 
in the regular Army at 
Indianapolis and was sent 
to the Fourth Cavalry, 
then stationed in the Phil- 
ippines. While in the Or- 
ient he visited Honolulu,, 
the Island of Korea and 
Nagasaki, Japan. 

After the Philippine in- 
surrection and the expiration of his term of service. Mn 
Witmer returned to San Francisco where he was employed 
in the Abe Brown Clothing Store on Market street until 
the great earthquake and fire that demolished San Fran- 
cisco on the morning of April 6, 1906. 

Mr. Witmer returned to his native Ozarks in 1911 and 
in 1913 was married to Ovie May Stephens. They now re- 
side in Republic, Missouri 

Mr. Witmer has several short stories to his credit and 
two books, ‘The Battle of Bonnie Wilson,” and “Black Gum 
Hollow.” and another novel soon to come off the press, 
“Barefooted Nobody.” Besides being a member of United 
Spanish War Veterans, Veterans of Foreign wars, he is also 
?. membe’ 1 of Book Discussion Club, Ozark Creative Writers 
Guild, Missouri-Arkansas Writers Artist Guild and Ozark- 
ian Hillcrofters. 

— 26 6 — 


We fly low. We fly high. 

And far up in the sky; 

So the world can see. 

We’re flying for Democracy. 

We fly low. We fly high, 

And far up in the sky; 

So the world can say, 

We’re flying for the U. S. A. 

We fly low. We fly high. 

And far up in the sky; 

So the world may know, 

We’re ready to bomb old Tokyo. 

We fly low. We fly high. 

And far up in the sky; 

Getting ready to begin, 

The destruction of old Berlin. 


In the silence so grand and true. 

You can find what you can do. 

Remember, as down the years you’ve trod 
That silence is the Voice of God. 

And as you scale Life’s towering ladder 
Seeking your far-off hidden goal, 

Don’t quaver when you see a “shadder,” 

The Inward Real may reap two-fold. 

In heavenly silence turn your mind 

To plumb the depths of the sublime ; 

Then in the silence soon you’ll find 
The Alkahest of all mankind. 

In that silence the still, small voice 

May call you: “Come to grander spheres — 

Where gleams the rainbow of your choice — 
O’er poet-sages of the years !” 

— 267 — 

So, writer, lawyer, artist — all, 

In silence lies your inspiration, 

After the storm, the “still, small voice” 
That gives the key of concentration. 
To bring Life’s grandest consummation. 


Ovie May Witmer was born 
June 16, 1892, near Kasha, Okla., 
spent her girlhood in Barry Coun- 
ty, Missouri. After her marriage to 
Edward A. Witmer, she became 
interested in writing, as she says, 
just to see how those thoughts 
would look in rhyme. 

Mrs. Witmer has worked 
hard to help make the “Art Crof- 
ters Guild” of Republic, a success, and is a devoted wife 
and mother. Her home is in Republic, Missouri. 


I’m walkin’ the Ozarks over for you 
Lookin’ for a cabin built for two; 

I’m not stopoin’ in the shade of a tree 
But lookin’ for that cabin for you and me. 

Keep your hope chest packed and rea'dy be 
When you receive the word from me; 

And keep a watchful eye for the old mail hack, 
For the letter I’ll soon be sending back. 

Wh<m you receive your travelin’ ticket; 

Grab your hope chest and clear the thicket ; 

For you will know it is true, 

That I’ve found the cabin built for two. 

The squire will be waitin’ at the gate, 

To hand us our marriage certificate; 

And beneath the sky so clear and blue, 

We’ll be wedded in the cabin built for two. 

- 268 - 


Mrs. Stella Lou Wright 
born near Stockton, Mis- 
souri, to Elmer and Vir- 
ginia Yost, the second in a 
family of ten. The one- 
room cabin in which she 
was born had no windows, 
only a door in north and 
south for light and venti- 
lation and one side of the 
wall was entirely taken up 
with a big fireplace which 
served as cook stove, and 

Mrs. Wright has written 
many poems and has many memories of the early day exper- 
iences and hardships and recounts one bad fright she had 
when a little child she was attacked by a large black 
cat belonging to a neighbor, her father came to the rescue 
with a club and beat the cat away. 

Mrs. Wright’s work has been published in many an- 
thologies and publications for several years. She has one 
son in the Armed Forces. 

Mrs. Wrght’s father was a nephew to the great David 
Livingston. Her mother was French descent. She was 
married in 1915, and is the mother of nine children. Her 
home is in Carthage, Missouri. 


I’d rather see a sky of blue — 

Somehow the clouds oppress. 

I know it’s best sometimes for me. 

To miss my happiness. 

I often wonder if life is fair — 

To send me so much pain. 

I never knew before how bright. 

The sun gleams after rain ! 

— 269 — 

If I had seen a rosy sky — 

I might be selfish, mean. 

Those fiery trails I have borne, 

Lave helped to keep me clean. 

They were unpleasant at the time 
isut since tney passed away, 

I’m glad my skies were overcast 
Sometimes along life’s way! 


wandered o’er the Ozark hills 
One splendid day in June. 

I walked in sunshine, golden, wa.rm, 

All nature was in tune. 

A red bird flashed through leaves of green, 
Upon an old oak tree, 

A cool, clear brooklet warbled by- — 

In perfect harmony. 

I walked in moonlight o’er the hills — 

No red bird could I see, 

The little brook woke up to sing, 

I crossed it tenderly. 

The leaves upon the old oak tree — 

Like dainty silver lace, 

Were filling shadows with a charm. 

In all that Ozark space! 

— Stella Lou Wright. 

— 270 — 


The Arcadian Guild is one of the numerous Gzarkadian 
projects sponsored by Otto Ernest Rayburn, editor of Ozark 
Guide, Lonsdale, Arkansas, during the past twenty years. 
The organization had its beginning at Caddo Gap, Arkan- 
sas, in the fall of 1937 when the first Arcadian Poet's Fair 
was held. During the past three years the Guild has been 
meeting annually at Hot Springs National Park. Activities 
have closed down for the duration, but it is planned to 
reorganize when the war is over. 

The officers of the Arcadian Guild are: 0. E. Rayburn, 
President, Lonsdale; Mrs. Harry H. Evans, Secretary, Hot 
Springs; Mrs. G. W. Conner, Vice President, Hot Springs. 
Members of the Advisory Committee are : Mrs. Bennie Bab- 
cock, Little Rock; Thomas Elmore Lucy, Springfield, Mo,; 
and Miss Inez Whitfield, Hot Springs. 

- 271 — ‘ 


The Art Crafters Guild was organized on October 
16, 1942 at Republic, Missouri by E. A. Whitmer, 
who is now President, H. M. Dodson is Secretary 
and Treasurer. 

This Club meets the First and Third Friday 
night in each month at 8:00 P. M. 

The present menbership of the club is eighty. 

The object of the Guild is to help each mem- 
ber develope their latent talent. 

— 272 — 


The Chillicothe Scribblers’ Club was organized Decem- 
ber 3, 1937, in the home of Mrs. Harry Taff. There were 
seven members, listed as Olive Rambo Cook, President; 
Ruth Stock Taff, Vice President; Buelah M. Huey, Secre- 
tary-Treasurer. Members: Mary Moore Fife, Elizabeth 
Palmer Milbank, Jerry Thistlewaite, and Marie Johnson. 

The Club members are very active and have work 
oublished in many magazines and poetry journals and nu- 
merous anthologies Among these Good Housekeeping, Wee 
Wisdom, Weekly Unity, Nautilus, Saturday Evening Post, 
Kansas City Poetry, American Poetry, American Courier, 
Denver Post, Kansas City Star, The Front Rank, Christian 
Evangelist, Christian Witness, St. Joseph News-Press, 
The Tidings, Chicago Tribune, LaCrosse Leader, and First 
Edition of laving Authors of the Ozarks, published 1940. 
Several have won book prizes and honorable mention for 
ooems in the National magazine, “The Writer.” The group 
has had many poems broadcast oh radio stations including 
National Broadcasting Company. Several poems have also 
been included in a text book, “What Is Poetry.” 

The Club now has 18 members and recent write-ups 
in the Writers’ Journal gives an account of sales. 

Officers listed for this year are: Cleo Marie Konow, 
President; Bertha Boone, Vice-President; Altha Van 
Hoover, Secretary-Treasurer. 

(Last year’s President, Eva Weaver Sefton, passed 
away September 28th — a loss we deepy feel). 



The Gasconade Writers’ Guild of Rolla, Mo., was found- 
ed and organized on February 15, 1941, by Mr. Carl B. Ike 
of West Plains, Mo. Mr. Ike gave a very interesting and 
instructive discourse <on the need for such an organization 
and told in detail the many benefits one may derive from 
affiliation with the same. The requirements for member- 
ship were made as flexible as might be consistent with the 
aims of the organization so that everyone interested in lit- 
erature and art in any form might have the opportunity 
of belonging to the society — thereby assisting in the fur- 
therance of the cause. 

The Guild was named in honor of one of our city’s 
most noted writers. Herb Duncan, who has been named “The 
Poet of the Gasconade,” who has been the means of really 
putting this Ozarks river and surrounding territory on the 
map. The roster was started with thirty-two charter 
members and now has a membership of sixty-five, thereby 
doubling the membership in this short length of time. 

The present officers are: President, Hazel Dagley 
Heavin; 1st Vice-President, Prof. M. H. Cagg; 2nd Vice- 
President, Rebecca B. Blake.; Secretary-Treasurer, Eleanor 
A. Totman; Counsellor, Prof. Cagg; Parliamentarian, Mar- 
garet Southgate Rucker; Historian, Rebecca B. Blake, as- 
sisted by Marie Alverson and Ethel Wofford Jones; Book 
R viewer, Estelle Ingerson; Press Correspondence, Eleanor 
Totman; Anthology Committee: Carl B. Ike, chairman, 
Hazel Dagley Heavin, Dr. C. V. Mann, Margaret S. Rucker, 
Eleanor Totman; Patriotic Committee: Prof. M. H. Cagg, 
E. Ingerson, R. Blake; Courtesy Committee: E. Totman, 
M. Ruker, R. Blake; Musical Committee: Prof. Cagg, Dir. 
Mann, Mrs. Mann, E. Ingerson, E. Totman; Dramatics 
Committee: Mrs. Mann, Emil Jones, E. Totman; Entertain- 
ment Committee: Emil Jones, R. Blake, Prof. Cagg, M. Al- 
verson, M. Rucker, E. Totman; Bulletin Committee: Hazel 
Dagley Heavin, Prof. J. M. Willson, Dr. Mann, E. Totman; 
Publicity and Membership: E. Totman, Hazel Dagley 
Heavin, C. B. Ike, Chas Clements (Hawaii), Roy E. Mar- 

— 274 — 

tin (Sprigfield), Thos. E. Lucy (S. C.), Claude Heavin 
(Texas), Fb McCullough (Joplin), W. S. White (Bolivar), 
May Kennedy McCord (St. Louis), May E. Doms (Salem), 
E. A. Witmer (Republic), Addah Matthews (Monett) Jesse 
She'ton (St. Joseph), Bertha M. Rinck (Newburg) ; Finance 
Committee: Marie Alverson, E. Ingerson, M. Rucker. 

The following members have donated copies of their 
books to the Guild: Herb Duncan, “Singing Gasconade,” 
‘‘Till April,” “Bloomgarden” ; Hazel Dagley Heavin and 
Carl B. Ike, “Memory’s Autograph” ; Hazel Dagley Heavin, 
“Half Way to Paradise”; George Clinton Arthur, “Bush- 
Whacker,” ‘''Backwoodsman”; Thos. E. Lucy, “Troubadour 
Trails” ; May E. Doms, “Hills o’ Shannon” ; Eugene Knight, 
“Bread From Desolate Places”; E. A. Witmer, “Battle of 
Bonnie Wilson”; Prof. M. H. Cagg, “Lessons in English”; 
Dr. C. V. Mann, “History of Missouri School of Mines” ; 
Eleanor A. Totman, “Glowing Embers,” “Opals and 
Dahlias” ; Flo McCullough, “Living Authors of the Ozarks.” 

Along other literary lines there are several columnists: 
Haziel Dagley Heavin and her “Country Road” (Rolla Her- 
ald) ; Herb Duncan and his “Dogface Doggerel” (Rolla 
New Era) ; “Along the Road” with May E. Doms (Salem 
Newspaper) ; Addah Matthews and her column in me 
Cassville paper; Carl B. Ike and Thos. E. Lucy carry on 
their feature work in several papers; May Kennedy Mc- 
Cord has her program over the air (KWK, St. Louis) ; 
several songs by Roy E. Martin, Dr. C. V. Mann, Rebecca 
B. Blake, and E. Totman; and a small magazette, “The 
What-Not,” edited and published irregularly by E. Totman. 


The Ozarkian-Hillerofters, an organization founded in 
1931 by Otto E. Rayburn, Carl B. iKe, and others for the 
purpose of preserving the heritage of the Ozarks, namely 
its traditions, lore, legendry, customs and its natural 
beauty, nad its beginning at Eminence in Shannon County. 
Some twenty members are on the charter. Many who 
w re there on Founders’ Day have passed on, and to the 
knowledge of the writer there remain only two, Carl B. 
IKe and Otto E. Rayburn. 

Mr. Rayburn was the first president and it was in his 
Arcadian heart that tne idea originated, and we hold 
him most religiously dear. 

The present officers of the organization are: Marshall 
T. j'amison, Springfield, President; Hazel Dagley Heavin, 
Vice President; May Kennedy McCord, Business Manager; 
and Miss Emma Galbraith, Secretary. 

Each fall there is held the Festival of the Painted 
Leaves in October during the Moon of Painted Leaves, 
and in the spring there is the Feast of the Mayapple which 
is celebrated in proper season. The Indian is recognized 
as our first Hillcrofter, and it is everywhere known where 
Indian lore is known at all the reverence in which he held 
nature. Our purpose and aim is to preserve these hills 
in as much of their natural beauty as possible and to 
hand down to posterity as much of the heritage of the 
hills as is possible. We have members in many states, 
ranging from Maine to California, and some from Cali- 
fornia even attended out meetings. 

Very outstanding is the ceremonial in which new 
members are taken into the organization, and very im- 
pressively solemn. At out meetings we revive old dances, 
songs, play party games and much hilarity and clean fun 
is enjoyed. But when the ritual time comes you may be 
sure that solemnity and reverence are present. The 
ceremonial is performed around a council fire, 

The membership numbers at this writing in the 
neighborhood of two hundred, and year by year the pur- 
pose and aim of the organization becomes deeper rooted 
in the hearts of the members. 

— 276 — 

TRI-STATE writers 

Tri-State Writers’ Club was organized in 1920 with a 
membership of professional and amateurs from Missouri- 
Kansas-Oklahoma, which has never been limited. Several 
of the poets have attained international recognition and 
any number of them have appeared in outstanding anthol- 
ogies from year to year. Prose writers have been equally 
as fortunate with their productions, some of which have 
merited prizes offered in contests sponsored by well-known 
publications for short stories; plays written by collabora- 
tors have been produced in Joplin and elsewhere with grat- 
ifying results ; others have succeeded with feature writing 
and songs. The Club became inactive in 1944, probably 
for the duration. Officers: Evans Buskett, president; Lu- 
ella Bailey, Mrs. C. G. Berry, Byrda J. Wilson, vice pres- 
idents; Stella Smith Collins, secretary; Alice de Beughem, 
corresponding secretary; Adocia M. Elam, treasurer; Nor- 
man C. Cox, (deceased 1943), critic and keeper of the 

Since 1940 the Club has sponsored three volumes of 
poetry and prose written by the members, “Lights and 
Shadows,” which has been discontinued for the duration. 


The following Ozark writers whose material failed to 
reach us before going to press: 

The Arnold Sisters 
Luella Moran Bailey 
Ann Burkhart 
Iris M. Compton 
Georgia Cragan 
Jessamine S. Fishback 
Ona Lacy Hunter 
Eugene Knight 
Margaret McCance 
Major J. E. McCullough 
Margairet L. Muncey 
Myrtle Sinclair Owens 
Lena Retta Peterman 
Djorris Barnette Roach 
Oil Rogers 
Roy Rogers 
Pearl Wantland 
Susan May Wheat 
W. R. Zimmerman 

— 278 — 


Judge G. W. Asendorf 
Kathryn Moran Ashcroft. 


May Kennedy McCord and Broadcasting Sta- 
tion KWK, St. Louis, Mo. 

Hazel Dagley Heavin and Rolla Herald. 

F. A. Behymer and St. Louis Post-Dispatch, St. 
Louis, Mo. 

Mary Twitchel Jones 

Eleanor A. Totman 

Eva W. Sefton, Chillicothe, Mo. 

Claira E. Gordon, Davisville, Mo. 

The Steelville Ledger, Steelville, Mo. 

The Ozark Playground Association of Joplin 

The Arkansas Gazette 

Gene Barnes, Winslow, Ark. 

Cora Pinkley Call, Eureka Springs, Ark. 

Carl B. Ike, West Plains, Mo. 

Otto E. Rayburn, Lonsdale, Ark. 

The Crawford Mirror, Steelville, Mo. 

Letitia Morse Nash, Texarkana, Texas 
E. A. Witmer, Republic, Mo. 

Springer Printery-Bindery, Carthage, Missouri 
and many others who helped in obtaining manu- 
scripts and advertising and the kindly hearts 
that inspired them to help. We thank you. 

The Compiler and Publisher, 
Florence Woodlock McCullough. 


If you like the work you are viewing 
Or the ones who have helped its doing 
Tell the world so all may know throughout the land 
If a word of praise is due them 
In all kindness tell it to them 
Before the chill of death has stilled their hand. • 

In this work are thoughts of many 
Write to all, don’t leave out any 
Say the kindly things that Inspiration brings 
Even if that heart knows sadness 
Your kind deed may bring it gladness. 

Let the Angels touch the harp to sound the strings 
More than any fame of fable 
Is a comment kind and able. 

To disburse all doubt of those they have tried to 

And to life it adds a savor 

Yes, it makes one strong and braver. 

Just little kindly comments such as these. 

F. W. McC. 

— 281 — 






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Colgrove, Renna 

Colley, Walter 

Collins, Stella Smith 

Connell, Ida 

Cook, Olive Rambo 

Cornwell, Emma R. 

Craker, Hellen Gleaves 

Crabtree, Opal Ellen 

Crenshaw, Jennie 

Clonts, J. H 

Cope, Minnie Squires 

Crump, R. E 

Crump, Bonnie Lee 



: 50 

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---• 67 

... 63 

- 65 

— 282 — 

Daniels, Thomas 

Day, L. Lois 

Davis, Sgt. L. P 

Davis, Katharine Murdock 

Dorns, May E 

Duncan, “Serb” 

Duncan, Virgil 

Emerson, Arthur 

Elam, Adocia 

Fitzpatrick, Teresa Helen ... 

Forbis, Russell 

Freeman, Anna L 

Gardner, Viola 

Gates, Hattie 

Gordon, Hugh 

Gordon, Clara Elyn 

Grafton, Dion C 

Grant, Jane Starr 

Goggins, Ernest Paul 

Hagler, Gola Denney 

Hartman, Violet Thomas .. 

Hall, Viola M 

Heavin, Claude Leland 

Heavin, Hazel Dagley 

Haynes, William James 

Helton, Olive Rose 

Hendricks, Charles 

Hunter, Zida M 

House, Lucy W 

Howard, Guy 

Huey, Beulah M 

Hyde, Clyde Stanley 

Hyatt, Eunice Clement 

Iden, Charles 

Ike, Carl Barkley 

Jackson, Bessie Brown 

Jameson, Marshall T. 

Jones, Mary Twitchell 

















7 8 






















- 283 - 

.lories, Stella V 

Jones, John Lacy 

Judy, Sibylla T. 

KonO'W, Cleo Marie 

Laughlin, Juanita Dawson 

Lowe, Virginia Van Buren ... 

Lucy, Thomas Elmore 

Lytle, Alice M 

Lloyd, Leona 

Mann, Mrs. Bonita 

Mann, Clair M 

Marinoni, Rosa Zagnoni 

Mahnkey, Mary Elizabeth 

Martin, Roy E 

Matthews, Addah 

Matthews, George W 

Mason, P ~ry James 

McCord, M. .y Kennedy 

McCullough, Marshall Lee 

McCullough, Florence (Flo) ... 
Milum, Audra (Connelly) 

Marlin, Jane 

Moore, Fred 0 

Moore, Nell M 

Middlebrook, Betty Lee 

Mosser, Carrie 

Murphy, Dennis 

Mueller, Mable E 

Mueller, Mrs. Phil 

Neidholt, Frances 

Newton, Luna E 

Payne, A. B 

Plawmann, Adeline Armstong 
Price, Mrs. W. D. 

Pursley, Mrs. J. H 

Phillips, Beatrice 

De Poncet, Edwin Stanton 
Plummer, Myrtes-Marie 




































1 o-j 



— 284 — 

Pyles, Lida Wilson 

Rayourn, Otto Ernest 

Richardson, L. L 

Rinck, Jtsertha Mae 

Rucker, Margaret Southgate 

Saracini, Joseph A 

Schumann, Elizabeth D 

Sefton, Eva Weaver 

Selvy, Anna Farris 

Sherrell, Helen Goddard 

Switzer, Edwin R 

Smith, Druisilla Alice 

Spain, Richard Leon 

Stogsdill, Daisy E 

Stroecker, Stella 

Stevick, Paul R 

Sues®, Adolph B 

Summers, Emma 

Taylor, Maxine 

Thompson, J. W 

Terry, Leslie Howard 

Terry, Alice Taylor 

Totman, Eleanor Greene ... 

Tucker, Zoe Aileen 

Turner, L. A 

Tyler, Ruth H 

Upton, Lucille Morris 

Vogel, Olivia 

Watts, Norine Criger 

Watkins, Lucy 

Weems, Fannie Orena 

Westrich, Rosena 

White, W. S 

Wichman. Clara Brecher 

Wiggins, Margaret E 

WiU.'-n, Coral Almy 

Wilson, Byrda J 

Wilson, Viola Davis 







































• 285 — 

Williams, Nancy Middleton • 262 

Willson, John M 264 

Woods, Col. Charles Lewis 26o 

Witmer, Edward A 266 

Witmer, Ovie May 268 

Wright, Stella Lou 269 

Clubs Page 

Arcadian Guild 271 

Art Crafters 272 

The Chillicothe Scribblers 273 

Gasconade Writers Guild 274 

Hill Crofters 276 

Tri-State Writers 277 

Lost, Strayed or Stolen 278 

In Memory 279 

Thanks to ZZZZZ.Z.Z.280 

If -Appreciation 281 

Index 282